Give Us Pause II
by CSI Clue
Summary: A continuation; Arthur and Ariadne cautiously learn more about each other.
1. Chapter 1

He kept an eye on her. The three of them stayed in contact; that was a given now that Cobb was gone. Eames made noises about going solo, but Arthur knew the man didn't have the resources to do much more than small-time freelance work now and then. Much as Eames baited him, Arthur accepted that it was mostly for show, and that their mutual respect had grown since the Fischer caper.

Ariadne was a different story, and Arthur watched her struggle for a while with the aftermath of losing Cobb. He didn't have Eames' easy charm or people skills, but Arthur made it a point to be around, and she seemed to appreciate his company. They had dinner together twice a week, usually at little bistros not far from the warehouse that Arthur still had under lease, and at least once a week they shared a Dream.

Arthur didn't want to admit it, but those times made him more nervous than any other aspect of his days. There was an intimacy to Dreaming that required trust, and trust was a commodity that Arthur didn't trade in very often.

Eames joined them occasionally while he searched for jobs; he still had contacts within COBOL, and an ear to the ground when it came to international business acumen. He and Arthur had done some quick and small Extractions mostly among Parisian CEOs, and the money was enough to live on comfortably for a while. Arthur banked his share and sent money home while Eames invested in stocks.

Ariadne spent hers on books; glossy coffee table collections of exotic architecture, some of it real, some of it fantasy. She shrugged them off as reference material and Arthur nodded at the sense of that.

When the three of them Dreamed, they practiced what they knew best, which meant that Ariadne created worlds. At the start they were minimalist and very Bauhaus, and Arthur sensed it was her rebound reaction to the elaborate work she'd been required to do prior.

"You like German Post-Modern?" he asked her.

"It's easy, and deceptive," she pointed out with one of her little shrugs. "Glass is transparent and reflective at the same time, which makes it a powerful element in a dream."

He hasn't thought of it that way before.

Sometimes Ariadne built mazes and the three of them had to find their way to a central point. Those were good sessions, and gave them all familiarity with each others' subs. Eames' were exotic types; Ariadne's a narrower selection from within her own age group.

Arthur's were bland.

And deadly.

The better Dreams though, were when he and Ariadne alone went to find each other. On those private jaunts when it was her turn, Ariadne would pull out all the stops, and Arthur was never sure where they would be. Some exotic Martian landscape from a Frazetta painting, or an ochre and mustard colored canyon in the high desert, or some ancient City along the Ur River.

"I don't think we're going to need anything from before the Bronze Age too often," he dryly teased her. "Not unless we get a client who's an archeologist."

"You never know. Maybe it's a memory from a past life," she smirked.

"Doubt it," he reached out a hand to one wall and smoothed his palm over it, "You like working with the natural elements and it shows."

She smiled at that. "Yeah."

"So _is _it memory, or original?" Arthur wanted to know. Ariadne looked uneasy, shifting from one foot to the other, and he looked up high into the sky before he spoke. "Cobb's rule about no memories was his _own_ safeguard because of Mal; you don't have to stick to it anymore if you don't want."

Ariadne relaxed a bit, and rubbed her arms. "It's from an adobe I once saw in Juarez, years ago. I was fascinated by how smooth they got the clay."

"Cool," Arthur replied.

"When you build _your_ worlds, why do you stick to Modern?" Ariadne asked him curiously. "I'm not criticizing—just interested."

"It's easy, it's fast, and it's forgettable," he replied firmly. "Look, when going in for the average Extraction, you don't need a lot of extraneous stuff; it's not necessary. You want the basics, and most business types are familiar with Modern."

"I disagree," she shot back smoothly, and Arthur blinked.

"Why?"

"Because," Ariadne moved closer, leaning against the clay wall next to him, "The more vivid and personalized the details, the more likely the subject will believe the dream is his own, and not something orchestrated for him. Think about it—if you dreamed of places you knew before, aren't you more likely to consider it YOUR dream?"

Arthur thought about it, and absently noted a few of Ariadne's subs giving him a distinctly dirty look as they passed by. "Possibly. I can see your point. But make it _too _vivid and you risk having him remember more of it when he wakes up. More of it than you _want_ him to."

"So it's a matter of striking a happy medium," Ariadne agreed. "Enough to fool them it's theirs, but not so much they get suspicious to the other degree."

"You don't like Modern?" Arthur asked before he could stop himself, then looked away. When he glanced back, Ariadne was running a finger along the clay wall, and the gesture was almost erotic.

"Modern's got its uses," she murmured ambiguously, and then glanced at him. "I'm interested in seeing what you'd choose if that one was taken off the table. Just between us."

"Is that a challenge?" Arthur blinked. "Because even though I've got a few years of Dreaming on you, the stuff I work with is pretty basic."

Her little smirk bloomed into a full smile, and the effect hit him in the solar plexus; Arthur remembered that in a Dream state, emotions always ran a little hotter.

"So brush up for next week and surprise me."

The loamy dirt underfoot smelled of water, and the leafy canopy overhead filtered the sunlight into various shades of green. Arthur shifted a little, looking out at the clearing, trying to relax and keeping his eye out on the three pathways that led to the little spring. By his estimation, Ariadne should be within a quarter mile, if she'd managed all the correct turns through the undergrowth and avoided the less than friendly villages.

He checked his watch and took a deep breath, letting himself enjoy the drowse of the afternoon.

She came stumbling into the clearing ten minutes later, annoyed and muddy, her hair streaked with sweat. Arthur watched her look around the clearing for a moment, then stepped out.

Ariadne whirled on him. "You've got an evil mind, Arthur! First that, that damned rice terrace, and then the pigs!"

"I grant you the pigs were pretty bad," he agreed, fighting a grin. "You ought to try moving across that sty at night without alerting them-_that's _a challenge. What did you do?"

"Used a bamboo stick and threatened them. I know it's not nice, but I was desperate," Ariadne admitted, wiping a thin wrist across her forehead. She was dressed in a loose Vietnamese tunic and pants, and her straw hat dangled behind her back. "So you've been to Southeast Asia," she murmured.

"Stationed there once, on a classified installation near the Laos border," Arthur told her, shifting his assault rifle along his thigh. He didn't glance down at his jungle camouflage and boots, preferring to look at her. "Worst humidity in the world, outside of South America; give me air conditioning every time."

She laughed, and would have said something but the sound of approaching voices alerted them both to his subs, and he reached out for her hand. "Come on—time to go cliff-diving."

They climbed along one rising ridge as the trees thinned out and the landscape grew rocky. Ariadne didn't let go of his grip, and Arthur liked the feel of her small, strong fingers in his. They reached the rocky top of the ridge, and from jagged edge there the view of the horizon stretched out, green and lush.

"Pretty country," Ariadne observed. Arthur swung his rifle around and fired along the trail behind them; a black-clad body fell out of the trees.

"And not Modern," he pointed out. "We need to go."

She nodded. Tightening her grip, Ariadne moved to the edge of the precipice. Arthur dropped the rifle and took her other hand, then nodded. Together, they leaped—

-and woke. Arthur flexed his empty fingers and Ariadne shuddered, shifting in the chaise lounge and blinking.

"You okay?" It was his standard question after every Dream. She reached into her pocket and gripped her totem, fumbling with it a moment, then nodded.

They didn't speak for a little while, stretching and walking off the effects of the sedative before converging again near the Dream Synchronizer. Arthur began to empty the sedative cartridges out while Ariadne leaned on the table and watched him.

"Military, huh?"

"Army," he offered briefly. "Made it to Major."

"Is that where you learned all this?" she asked. He nodded, snapping the case closed, and hoping she would change the line of questioning. To her credit, Ariadne seemed to sense his mood and smiled.

It was a good maze. Very . . . organic. The animals were incredibly detailed, right down to the stench."

"Pigs aren't that bad, once you get used to them. Personally, I think goats are worse."

He watched her cock her head in confusion.

"You wear three piece suits but you know farm animals?"

"Yes."

"Grew up on a farm?"

"You could say that," he agreed, and looked out one of the frosted windows. "Pascal's is still open if you're hungry."

They took one of the terrace tables and shared a bottle of the house wine as they waited for dinner. A definite twilight chill in the air made it clear that the last of the Indian summer was fading from the City of Lights.

Ariadne kept looking at him, and he kept looking back.

"You don't offer up a lot of information," she accused, but it was a thoughtful comment.

"So ask," Arthur told her, bracing himself for an onslaught of questions. If there was one thing he knew about Ariadne it was that she wasn't shy about getting to the heart of things.

She surprised him by grinning and sitting back in her chair. "So why don't you like goats?"

Out of all the things he expected Ariadne to ask, that wasn't one of them. Arthur paused, mid-sip of wine and carefully set the glass down before shooting her a dry look. "Goats. Seriously. You want to know about my experiences with goats. All right. Twenty-four years ago I was terrorized by a Nubian billy who cornered me in a feedlot and ate two thirds of my right tee-shirt sleeve before I could fling myself behind a hay bale and escape. And now you're laughing. Great."

Ariadne was writhing in her chair, one hand over her mouth, spluttering cutely and trying hard to regain a sense of decorum. She wasn't succeeding, and Arthur grudgingly felt himself begin to smile in turn.

"G-G-God, Arthur. The trauma," she snorted, a second spasm of giggles welling up. "Petting zoo?"

"Four H," he admitted. "I was showing a Yorkshire sow that year."

She pointed a finger at him, and her smile was nothing short of amazing. "Pigs."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, savoring the sight of her amusement, and then he spoke, his tone slightly reluctant. "Eames and I are going out of town for a couple of weeks. We've got a small job lined up in Oslo."

As he expected, Ariadne looked mulish. "Without me?"

"You've got a dissertation to finish," he pointed out, "And a seminar to teach. We won't be gone long; it will pay enough to keep the lights on for another six months, okay?"

Reluctantly Ariadne nodded. "Yes, okay. Just . . . be careful, all right? And call me when you get back."

"I'll keep him out of trouble," Arthur assured her, feeling a warmth deep in his stomach that had nothing to do with the exceptional vintage they were sharing.


	2. Chapter 2

The job was easy, and Oslo was bitterly cold. After a week of warming up to the target, Eames managed to invite the man for a nightcap in a hotel room on another floor and Extracted the key formula ingredients for a popular soft drink while Arthur monitored the Dream Synchronizer.

Later, after waking up, Eames stayed, ribbing the man about the two of them being lightweight drinkers while three floors above, Arthur encrypted the information and sent it off to the business rivals, who promptly returned the favor by releasing a large deposit on hold in a numbered Swiss account.

Both of them stayed on for a few days and then took separate flights out of Gardermoen; Eames to Mombasa to see Yusuf, and Arthur back to Paris.

"I'll see what I can do about restocking; airport security being what it is we may have to resort to innocuous packages with DSL. Priority?" Eames murmured as they stood in line for overpriced bottles of water at one of the duty-free shop.

Arthur nodded. "It wouldn't hurt either if we could talk our mutual friend into a visit sometime soon as well. The more we practice as a team, the better we'll get."

"Right," Eames nodded. "So give our lovely builder a kiss for me, and *try* to take the stick out of your backside once in a while, darling."

Arthur rolled his eyes and walked off as the Englishman's soft laughter faded behind him.

The flight lasted three hours due to rain, and Arthur slept through most of it. He woke half an hour before landing, impressed that he'd managed to sleep at all, and fleetingly, he remembered a vague impression of a dream, but nothing solid came to mind, just a low sense of yearning.

The storm was in full strength by the time he made it out of De Gaulle, and Arthur opted to head to the warehouse first, prowling through the first floor to make sure all the security measures were still in place, then he trudged up to the second floor, shaking off the rain from his coat. He turned on the lights and surveyed the main room carefully.

Before he'd even made it to the center, his cell phone rang.

"You were supposed to _call_ when you got back," came Ariadne's sleepy chide.

"It's after midnight; I thought you'd want to sleep in," Arthur replied, tucking the phone between his shoulder and neck as he locked up the Dream Synchronizer in the safe.

"I want to hear how it went," Ariadne persisted. "I'm coming over."

"No, I'll meet you," Arthur murmured, "I'd rather not have all the lights on here."

"Saint Germain," she told him and hung up before he could reply.

The little bar was in the middle of a lull, and the steady rain kept customers away, but Arthur studied the door carefully before climbing out of the cab and approaching it. Caution was more than a practice; the habit had saved his life more than once, and he wasn't about to take anything for granted, even something as simple as meeting Ariadne.

He turned up his collar and darted across the street, slipping into the doorway to wipe the mist from his face. Peeking inside, Arthur noted a few people at the bar; a group of slightly drunken friends from the look of them. He stepped inside and let his gaze sweep the room, taking in the semi-dark interior, looking carefully.

The Saint Germain had a long, well-lit bar and beyond it, tables and booths done in oxblood leather. A few fat votives sat on the tables, providing pools of light along the interior, and on the other side of one, looking ethereal, Ariadne sat waiting. Her hair glittered with leftover raindrops, and when her gaze met his, she smiled.

An echo washed over Arthur; the dim remains of yearning. He moved quietly through the Saint Germain and sat down opposite her, smiling briefly in return. "This could have waited until morning."

"Probably," Ariadne agreed, but her expression said something else, and Arthur held her gaze a moment longer than usual.

A painfully thin waitress glided over and asked in French what they were drinking.

Ariadne ordered a glass of house wine; Arthur opted for a Gin and tonic. They waited until the waitress left before meeting gazes again.

"Oslo?" Ariadne prompted.

Arthur spoke, covering the case in a few laconic sentences, and finished by fishing in the breast pocket of his coat for a small tissue bag that he handed to her.

Ariadne took it, noting Norwegian lettering embossed on the bag. She opened it and slowly pulled out a long rectangle of heavy silk, patterned in golds and greens, the overlapping colors as brilliant as scales on a Koi.

Arthur held still, waiting for her to look up, bracing himself for her words. Ever since buying the thing on an impulse, he'd thought of every possible response she could make, every potential outcome to this . . . gift.

It was, he admitted to himself, a risk. Much as he knew about this intense, brilliant girl—and it was a lot; he'd done his research thoroughly when Cobb had first brought her on board—he still didn't know precisely what made her tick.

Ariadne stroked the scarf through her fingers, pulling the length of it in a long, sensuous stroke before slipping it around the back of her neck. She looked up, her gaze bold and open. "Thank you."

Arthur nodded, a quick acknowledging bob of his head. Ariadne opened her mouth, thought better of it, and looked away. The waitress came back with their drinks, setting them down and taking the bills Arthur dropped on her tray.

He risked a look at her over the top of his glass as he took his first sip; she looked puzzled, but touched, and instead of sipping her wine, she let her fingers caress the stem of the glass lightly.

They said nothing, and the space between them hummed quietly with a sweet new tension. Arthur resisted the urge to speak, enjoying the sight of her scarf in the glow of the candle. The burn of the gin felt good going down, the heat lingered in the pit of his stomach.

"Why?" came Ariadne's question, so soft that for a moment he wasn't sure if she'd spoken or he'd imagined it.

He was ready for that. "Because you like scarves."

Ariadne's left eyebrow went up, and her skeptical look nearly made him smirk, but it was late and he wasn't in the mood to step back. Arthur finished his drink, and set the glass down, listening to the cubes clink before speaking again. "I'll take you home."

She didn't argue; Paris wasn't a safe city after dark for a lone woman. They slipped out the door of the Saint Germain, briefly brushing bodies in the narrow doorway.

The cabbie was morose but efficient, and soon they were pulling to a stop in front of a block of old apartments near the Sorbonne. Arthur paid him and followed Ariadne out of the taxi, taking in the surroundings even as she confidently made her way towards the wide front stairs. Only a few lights were on, and the shadows lay thick across the wet pavement.

"Thank you," Ariadne murmured, climbing one step and turning. This made her nearly eye level with Arthur, who paused and studied her face in the dim light.

It was a lovely face; a long oval with expressive eyes and straight, elegant brows. Her mouth shifted into a rueful half-smile, and she spoke again. "We both need sleep."

"Yes," he told her, as much to say something as anything else. Arthur felt the tug between them; that unspoken reluctance to end the evening. The feeling was dangerous and warm, even in the chill of the rain-drenched streets.

Arthur wanted to say something more, but everything that came to mind was trite. He moved to turn, and Ariadne reached out, cupping his thin cheek against her palm, stopping him. They stood that way for a moment, neither of them moving. Arthur felt the gentle sear of her touch, and held still, letting it sink in as he gazed at her.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Ariadne asked him in a slow voice.

All around them time was still passing, but here in this little bubble of intimate space, Arthur felt as if each second was stretching into an hour, and the intensity teetered between pain and pleasure. "I . . . can't," came his rough whisper, but his mouth quirked, and he dropped his head in a silent obeisance to her.

Ariadne withdrew her touch and turned, flitting up the stairs and into the lobby of her building, leaving him standing at the foot watching her go. Arthur stayed there for another long minute, and turned away only when the rain started to fall again.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't see her again for two days, which was both good and slightly maddening. Arthur used the time to service the three Dream Synchronizers, taking them apart and cleaning them thoroughly in the bright sunshine that came through the glass ceiling of the warehouse. He checked his contacts, wrote quick and light-hearted emails home, filling them with fictitious stories for Charlotte, and signed for packages from Mombasa, Paz, and Sydney. Eames sent him emails with filthy links and coded messages; Saito repeated his weekly offer to hire him and the rest of the team to work exclusively for his company.

Arthur walked Paris. He avoided the tourist spots and spent most of his time moving along the little side streets and hidden delights of the city, polite and quiet with his flat-accented French. He spotted a few familiar faces and thousands of unfamiliar ones, and the entire time, one small portion of his thoughts stayed on the puzzle that was Ariadne.

He knew all three of the reasons to keep things professional between them, and went over them daily, like a mantra.

_Getting personal means getting slack about professionalism. _

_Being involved with someone you work with means creating extra danger in a Dream._

_Emotions complicate Extractions._

They made sense; they were sound advice and under them Arthur had the tragic example of Dom and Mal to back up those rules.

Arthur wished matters were simpler. If Ariadne were someone else, someone other than who she was it _would_ be. If she didn't like Dreaming, or wanted out, or had some significant other, there would be no issue. Hell, if HE had a significant other . . . .

But he and Tess had parted bitterly, and even Charlotte knew better than to ask anymore. Sometimes Arthur still rubbed where the ring had been on his finger, even though years had gone by.

So here he was in the now, caught between the logic and the longing; a pretty, private torment he'd never anticipated. It was ludicrous, mooning after a woman as if he was a teenager again. Not that he'd been a typical teenager anyway, Arthur acknowledged to himself, but still—this awkward dance of attraction had him on the verge of tripping over his feet, and if he didn't take care, Eames would catch on.

That would be an added hell he certainly didn't need.

He visited all his favorite galleries along the Left Bank, and put in bids on several paintings before making his way towards the university, moving purposefully now, a quiet figure in his leather jacket and jeans. Arthur slipped into the lecture hall and stood in the back, among the deep shadows, focusing his attention on the slender figure down below.

Ariadne knew her stuff, certainly. She moved around in front of the blackboard, firing off points and turning periodically to illustrate something as she did. Most of her diagrams were about waist-level, but the hall was respectfully quiet, with only an occasional hand going up.

With a pang of delight, Arthur noted she was wearing his scarf; even at this distance, the glittering colors floated in a thin cloud around her neckline. It looked lovely on her; as lovely as he'd known it would.

The hour finished, and while most of the students hurried off, a handful lingered, coming down to the front of the lecture hall to ask questions. Arthur hesitated, and then stepped down two steps. Ariadne looked up, catching his eye, and there was no mistaking the quick, bright smile she gave him before turning her attention back to a student at her left shoulder.

Finally, when the last of the students had left, Arthur slowly made his way down, step by step towards her. Ariadne stood with her arms crossed, watching him approach, and her expression was clearly . . . bemused.

"You lecture well," Arthur told her sincerely.

"Thank you. It's a good seminar group," she replied, moving to the desk to pack up her satchel. He watched her neatly scoop files and a small laptop into it, and reached out to take the bag for her; Ariadne let him, shooting a surprised yet pleased look when he did. "Thank you."

He shrugged, settling the handle into his palm, and waited for her to start walking. They left the lecture hall and crossed the courtyard; Arthur slowed his stride so that she didn't have to hurry. Around them, the thin sunshine was drying up the last of the rain, and hints of frost promised an early winter. Ariadne hummed a little, then looked up at him. "All right. I _get _that you're not a big talker, but the 'actions speak louder than words' bit doesn't always translate well for me, Arthur. What's going on?"

He didn't hesitate this time. "I like you. This is a problem for me."

It amused Arthur to see her blink at that, caught off-guard by his admission. She took three more steps before finding something to say. "I see."

She didn't, of course. Arthur noted Ariadne's blush and it warmed him to think that he'd surprised her. She must have had _some _inkling—women were renowned for picking up on the subtleties.

That's what had made Mal such a good architect, in her day.

"I like you," he repeated, not looking at Ariadne. "And this can be a good thing or a bad thing. In the right circumstances, it can be an incredible asset to Dreaming. My subs would tolerate you for much, much longer. We could mesh a world to a deeper degree than the surface design. A powerful teamwork."

"And the bad would be like Dom and Mal?" she questioned softly, frowning. "So caught up in going to deeper levels that ultimately one or both of us would end up in limbo?"

"That," Arthur muttered, "was their own tangent. I don't intend on going any deeper than necessary. I'm more worried about _other_ aspects."

"Like . . . getting hurt?" Ariadne shot back. She caught his glance and held it defiantly, waiting for an answer.

Arthur stood still for a moment, pinned by that determined gaze, and he felt his expression soften. "Yes."

Suddenly, irrationally, he wished they were Dreaming; that this conversation was taking place in that shadowy realm where anything could fold or vanish or appear without a need for rationalization.

Where it might not even be remembered by either of them.

"You're not talking about being physically hurt," Ariadne clarified.

"No," Arthur admitted, and said nothing more as a cloud passed overhead, casting a shadow across them both.

She reached out and to take the satchel from him. "I understand."

Her tone was guarded, and Arthur bit back a sigh, keeping his grip on the handle. "_Do _you? You've Dreamed less than twenty times all told, Ariadne. Care to guess how many times I've been under? How many scenarios I've been through? How Dreaming can alienate you from people who've never done it? And how at the same time it creates an intimacy with your teammates whether you're ready for it or not?"

Arthur hadn't meant to let his voice get bitter, but by the look on her face he knew his tone had gotten cutting. She blinked again, and this time it gratified him to see that she was *trying* to understand.

"Intimacy?" Ariadne echoed.

He sighed. "We'll end up dreaming of each other, eventually. The more you work with the same people, the more likely you are to dream of them when you're not on the machine."

She looked guilty, and Arthur fought a smirk as Ariadne cleared her throat. "I thought that was just . . . familiarity."

"It is," he assured her. "Dom and I were used to it; that was when the tokens came in handy. What I'm saying is that we are working together steadily, and that already gives us a relationship that's . . . unique."

"You work with Eames, and Yusuf too," she pointed out. "Do you dream of them when you're not hooked up?"

"I've worked with Eames five times, and Yusuf twice. You and I have been Dreaming together for nearly _twelve _sessions, Ariadne."

That brought her up short, and Arthur waited long quiet minutes while she made a show of giving up on regaining the satchel. Finally, Ariadne tossed her hair back and looked up at him, expressionless.

"Do you want me to quit?" the question was quick, low and tinted with pain.

"No," came his reply. "I don't. I just don't want you . . . in the dark. About how things are changing," Arthur muttered. "The . . . attraction."

That brought a smile, and she turned, walking and forcing him to come after her along the gravel path. This was the old Ariadne, confidently striding along, heading for the bridge, her cheeks beginning to redden in the chill. Confused, Arthur followed, catching up easily and slowing his pace once more as they mounted the steps and crossed.

A briny smell from the water below rose up, along with the scent of iron and a hint of smoke. Ariadne paused to lean on one of the rails, looking out over the wrinkled water. "So was that what that kiss was _really _about?"

He slowly shook his head in embarrassment. "That . . . was impulse. A whim. Sorry if I embarrassed you."

An awkward pause lingered for a moment between them as they both studied the Seine.

"It could have been worse I guess," Ariadne murmured finally. "You could have goosed me or something."

He laughed, caught for a moment in the mental image of her in her prim business suit, jumping and squeaking in the lobby of the fancy hotel, and clearly she must have had a similar picture because Ariadne joined in, the sound relieved and sweet in the breeze over the bridge.

When they both drew breath afterwards, Arthur risked another glance at her, and Ariadne was bright-eyed, her mouth quirking at one corner.

"This attraction . . . it goes both ways, you know," she told him.

Arthur felt his brows go up. "It does?" he managed, startled.

"I want to know more about you every time I'm with you," Ariadne murmured, not looking directly at him, her profile half-hidden by her floating hair. "You're like a maze yourself; full of deflections and dark spaces and unexpected roundabouts, and just when I think I'm making an inroad, you change the route. That drives me crazy, but in a good way."

He waited a beat. "That's not intentional."

She shot him a dry look. "Would you know if it was?"

"Hey now," Arthur began to protest, then paused as her comment caught up to him. "Okay, I can't really say if it is, but I don't _think _so."

Ariadne gave an exasperated sigh that dissolved into a smile. "Let's go Dream, Arthur."


	4. Chapter 4

The dream was his; this setting was one of hers. A sumptuous room; some thousand dollar suite, but not in a city, not with the whisper of palms outside, and the woven fans spinning slowly overhead. Wooden teak beams crossed the ceiling, and the floors were polished to mirror sheen.

A bedroom, with a huge bed draped in sheer mosquito netting, exotic and delicate against one wall. The other three-quarters of the room had open picture windows, revealing a breathtaking view of sugar-white sand tropical beach under a dark sky sprinkled with diamond dust of stars.

Arthur sucked in a breath, stunned at the artistry, the utter_ sumptuousness _of the setting. Even Nash, with all his research into Saito's past hadn't been able to come up with anything so fully realized and rich. He gazed out across the beach and then turned when a movement caught the corner of his eye.

He stared.

Ariadne lay on the bed, unfocused under the gauzy filter of the netting. Draped along the pale peach of her naked body, the koi scale scarf glittered in the silvery moonlight that flooded the room.

Arthur forgot to breathe. He stood there, swaying slightly, unable to move lest the erotic vision vanish in the time it took to blink, and he heard himself making some sort of croaking noise.

He knew, without words- in the unrefined world of Dreaming- that this was _his _image of her in this setting. A place so exotic and sensual could only _be_ inhabited by the most exotic and sensual Ariadne he could think of.

Arthur drew in a shaky breath, content simply to stand and drink in the searing vision of her delicate form, hair loose and spread across the pillows.

Ariadne curled to her side, the pearly curve of her small hip suddenly visible as the scarf slipped from it. "Okay, I'm very flattered. You really _do_ like me," she murmured, discomfited but amused, too. Arthur looked up at the ceiling, trying hard to control the rush of desire surging down the tense muscles of his stomach.

Control. That was the key.

"You need clothes. Unfortunately, having seen you like this, it's . . . an effort not to _keep_ see you like this. Christ! Okay, um, prim business suit in light charcoal, tan stockings, no-nonsense bun for your hair . . ." he recited tonelessly, trying to concentrate. "Uh, what else—heels . . ."

"I hate to interrupt, but it's not working," Ariadne informed him matter-of-factly. "Your lips may be moving, but your mind isn't making this happen. I don't think your mind's in charge right now, actually."

"Yeah, well can you _blame_ me?" he protested, turning away with great difficulty, and rubbing a hand along his brow. "I'm not pointing fingers here, but you . . . _made_ this place, and given the most obvious piece of furniture in the room it's a little hard not to respond with testosterone over intellectual thought, Ariadne!"

It was unfair to blame her solely, Arthur knew, but his defenses were crumbling a bit in the moonlight.

"I'll change it," she murmured from behind him.

00oo00oo00oo00

The bright sunlight made Arthur blink, as did the sudden rush of noise. Clanking of metal trays, babble of conversation, the scrape of chairs.

Around him was a high school cafeteria, students bustling to get into line or to tables. On the walls, banners hung, urging everyone to 'Beat Eastside!' and 'Go Chargers!'

He relaxed, drawing in a breath and feeling the tightness under his belly relax a bit, grateful for the momentary reprieve. The sunshine helped, definitely. Arthur turned, feeling he could face Ariadne now even if he _was _still feeling the heat across his face.

She was sitting across the long table from him. Still naked. True, her long hair and the gold-green scarf were obscuring better parts of the view, but there was still plenty of Ariadne to see in the sunlight.

Arthur instantly closed his eyes. "Shit."

"Arthur!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! This is a dream; I'm not exactly dealing with logic down here!"

"Put me IN something!"

"Like _what?" _he demanded in frustration, wanting like HELL to peek.

"I don't _know!_ A, a nun's habit, a burnoose, a muumuu—anything!" Ariadne snapped, her voice strained. "Your subs are looking pissed and heading this way-"

"Okay, okay! You're in—"

He risked opening his eyes, and across the table, Ariadne was now swathed head to toe in grey mink. The glossy fur of the elegant coat made her hair seem redder, and a hint of the scarf peeked out at her throat.

Ariadne looked stunned, then winced. "Um, thanks."

"You're welcome," Arthur muttered, relieved and under it, intrigued by the vision she made. Around them, students, cheerleaders and teachers moved, not noticing them at all. "Okay, things seem to be a bit more . . . stabilized."

"Stabilized," Ariadne echoed. "Sure. I'm sitting here wearing nothing but a scarf and a fur coat-"

"Don't _tell _me that!" Arthur protested miserably. "It was hard enough getting you in that as it is, okay? Look, one of the other factors about Dreaming, if you haven't figured it out for yourself by now is that emotions run a _little_ higher here. We don't have as many filters when we're opening up our subconscious, and _I _don't need any more reminders that you're very pretty. So just . . . keep your coat closed and we'll walk around until the Sed wears off, all right?"

"Fine," Ariadne muttered, pushing away from the table and standing up. She looked at her feet. "Three inch heels? You've got some kinks here; you know that."

Arthur turned away, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "Yeah well. It's been a while since I've . . . never mind. Come on-"

He took off for a few steps, then waited with his back turned, listening to the click of her heels on the linoleum floor of the cafeteria. Ariadne deliberately bumped his shoulder and they began to walk, moving out the double doors and onto a quad. There were tables here and there, and students playing in the sunshine; Frisbees and footballs mostly.

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek, not really feeling it. He was aware that his dreaming self up in the lounge chair of the warehouse had a serious erection, and that any further teasing from Ariadne would bring on an orgasm. That would be not only embarrassing, but also messy and impossible to ignore both here and there. While control was possible—and habitual- when he was awake, in Dreams, matters weren't so predictable, and he wanted to keep from straying.

"Is this _your _high school?" he asked, to change the subject. Next to him, Ariadne looked as if she was debating not answering him, but finally she shrugged. The gesture was nearly lost in the heavy coat.

"One I went to for a while. I liked it better than the others."

"Did you beat Eastside?"

"Almost never," Ariadne muttered. "We were the artsy school of the town."

"Ah." He replied. They kept walking, and gradually the path they were taking led down a slope towards a lake, glittering in the sunshine. Arthur noted a series of docks, and small rowboats there; he turned, a question in his expression.

"We were known for crew, too. I was a coxswain for a season."

Arthur wished she hadn't said that. The term was too close to smutty for his comfort. He looked out over her shoulder, noting that in the distance, his subs were looking slightly agitated. "Great. Let's go for a boat ride."

The only tricky moment was helping Ariadne in; the mink coat gapped open, and once again, the tantalizing peek of bare thigh made him dizzy. Arthur looked away, across the lake, and dropped himself on the hard bench seat in the middle, shoving the oars into their locks.

He rowed.

They moved across the glittering water smoothly, and although the sunshine was bright, the glare didn't bother him—small favors in a Dream, but Arthur took them gratefully. He rolled up his sleeves and put his muscles to work, pulling the long oars in careful, methodical strokes.

At the stern, Ariadne sat, a small breeze blowing through her hair. She sighed. "So . . . can we talk about this?"

"No," Arthur muttered.

"Why not?" she replied, aggrieved. "It's not like it's going to go away, Arthur. We can't just pretend this isn't happening, you know. And it's not that big a deal. People _do _have erotic dreams."

"I know that," Arthur huffed, looking over his shoulder to steer for a second, "but generally they aren't the kinds of Dreams that get shared, Ariadne."

She said nothing for a moment, leaning over to trail her fingers in the water. After a while-"What happens if you have sex in a dream?"

Arthur's grip on the oars slipped a bit; he caught a crab and sighed, pulling in the oars and leaning over them as the boat began to slow.

He looked up at Ariadne, who sat there, looking impossibly beautiful in the sunshine. "There's the rub, if you'll pardon a bad pun. If _you _have sex in a Dream, you may or may not have an orgasm. Chances are pretty good you won't, but you'll wake up horny as hell. If _I _have sex in a Dream, I'm pretty much guaranteed an orgasm, and I'll wake up a damp, embarrassed mess."

Ariadne thought about that for a moment. "Is it possible to have sex together in a Dream? I mean, won't the subs have a problem with it?"

Arthur laughed, stunned at her sheer persistence of the topic. "Oh man, you've got chutzpah, I'll give you that. In answer to your question, I don't know. I suspect Dom and Mal had a few encounters while they were Dreaming, but it wasn't the sort of thing they shared with me, either awake or asleep."

"But we do other things in a dream without difficulty," Ariadne pointed out. "Walk, talk, fight—"

"Yeah, but those are not . . . emotional," Arthur responded slowly. He gripped the oars again, settling his palms against the rounded ends. "Remember back when Saito got shot? How we all damned near came to blows with Cobb? We were angry—furious in fact-and we didn't have a lot holding us back at that point."

Ariadne nodded. "Yes, I remember. But those were also . . . negative emotions. Cobb pointed out when we first put together the plan for Fischer that positive emotions had a longer-lasting impact, and that makes me believe that he was speaking from experience, Dream-wise."

"Yeah, well sex isn't always a positive experience," Arthur grunted, pulling hard on the oars. He refused to look at her after that, and concentrated on the steady rhythm required to get the boat to the other side of the lake. On the far shore, subs were starting to climb into boats to come after them.

The boat glided towards a dock, and Arthur managed to steer the rowboat until it was in shallow water, then dropped himself over the side, grateful for the cold water in more ways than one. He pulled the boat to the rocky shore, beaching it high. Ariadne scrambled to the prow, then cautiously stepped out, her shoes ridiculous against the gravel beach.

Arthur scooped her up, biting back an oath, and wondering how many more minutes of sedation they had left. She wasn't heavy, but Ariadne protested.

"I can just take the shoes off and _walk _you know!"

"Fine—" he began, and half-turned. That was a mistake; they both went down against the grassy slope, Ariadne giving a startled yelp when he landed on top of her.

Her face was close; so close he could count her freckles, and Arthur had never realized how thick her lashes were . . .

00oo00oo00

His eyes opened and he found himself looking up at the greenhouse ceiling of the warehouse, tense and turgid.


	5. Chapter 5

. Quickly, Arthur rolled to his side, away from Ariadne's chair and tugged the Velcro wristband off, making sure the micro-fine needles slid free from the skin. He rose and walked towards one of the windows, concentrating on the skyline beyond it, and the thin haze that had begun to cloud the sky.

Behind him, Arthur heard Ariadne groggily begin to get up from her lounge, and the soft hiss of the Synchronizer's recoil as the leads retracted. He bit the inside of his cheek for real and didn't turn around even when he heard her soft footsteps coming closer.

"Arthur?" The worry in Ariadne's voice finally made him half- turn to face her.

"I'm okay," he assured her gruffly. "You?"

Her slow nod and twisted smile made him feel a little better; those along with the hint of pink along her cheekbones.

"Yes," Ariadne replied. "And for the record, I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"It was a Dream," he shrugged one shoulder in an attempt at off-handedness. "Smoke. Mirrors. Paradoxes."

"Yeah," she nodded, not entirely convinced. "To a degree. Do you want the scarf back?"

"What? No! That's a gift—" Arthur protested, startled at the idea. "It's got nothing to do with this."

"Really?" Ariadne murmured, her gaze steady. "Because I couldn't help but notice that I was wearing it all the time in there. That sort of pervasiveness tends to make me think it might have . . . meant something. Symbolism of sorts. Sorry if I got the wrong impression."

It was impossible to look away from her, and Arthur felt his pulse begin to thrum; an odd weightless sensation tickled the inside of his stomach. "I . . . I . . ."

"You like me," Ariadne reminded him, and gave him a quick smile, "but you're not ready for me. I get that. I'm a big girl, Arthur; I can take rejection. What I can't take is side-stepping yes or no for very much longer. When you know which it is, _tell_ me, all right? You know where to find me."

Ariadne reached up, gently hooking a hand around the back of his neck and tugged him down until they were nearly nose to nose. She angled her face, and leaned forward; a second later Arthur felt the soft, warm press of her lips against his, and his instincts surged, _hard._

He cupped her face in his hands, holding it as he kissed her back. The rush of sensation was a warm wave shot through with mingled emotions, all of them slightly raw: desire, yearning, desperation and under it, a sense of relief that he didn't dare dwell on.

Delicious. Ariadne's mouth was utterly delicious, soft and yielding under his. He groaned a little, the sound muffled between them, and kept kissing her, his lips sliding over hers. Then Arthur felt the tiniest flick of tongue along the seam of his lips; a tickle sweetly seeking entrance.

With pleasure, he gave it, and what had been an impulsive kiss suddenly became a sensual one full of heat and hunger. They kissed again, surging against each other, and Arthur slid his hands from her face down her neck to Ariadne's small shoulders, pulling her closer, devouring her.

And to his astonishment, she kissed him just as intently, just as frantically, her tongue probing and playing with his in a tangle of flavors and pressure. Ariadne pulled away for a quick breath and dove back into yet another kiss, her delicate frame bumping against his with an eagerness that sent a thrill through him.

Arthur reluctantly pulled away, staring into her eyes, jolted further by the open desire in them. "Yes," he rasped, voice deep. "But—"

"Later," Ariadne murmured, and pulled his mouth to hers once again.

One kiss shifted into another, and Arthur lost his sense of time and place as he let go of his caution for this enchanted moment. It was lust, yes—the press of their bodies didn't deny that, but the tenderness, the sensual slowness of their kissing made him almost dizzy. Ariadne was nothing if not intensely passionate about whatever she wanted—Arthur had seen that in other matters. To have it applied to _him_ however, was nearly more than he could take in, and his body was demanding he replay the compliment as fully as he could.

He ached. In a good way. The best way, really, but it was still an ache."Ariadne—" he grunted softly, "We need to stop. I'm . . . not really prepared to take this where it needs to go right now."

She blushed. It was beautiful on her, the quick pink flush across the top of her cheeks, and he smiled to see it.

Ariadne leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the loosened knot of his tie. "Um, blue, huh?"

"Indigo," Arthur grunted, but he grinned briefly. "And if you know that, then you understand how much that hurts."

"I've been told," she murmured. "Although I'm pretty sure you're not going to die from it."

"Another urban legend bites the dust," he groaned in mock-disappointment. "I'll live—uncomfortably for a while, but I'll live."

"Okay then," Ariadne nodded awkwardly. "I've got work, and this evening is booked, unfortunately, but tomorrow-?"

"Gallery opening on Rue Lascaux," he replied quietly. "Wine and cheese thing I'd penciled in. Want to go?"

Ariadne blinked a little, and he could tell that she was mentally reassessing him; a move that pleased Arthur a bit. _Let me be predictable on the surface,_ he thought, _and something else underneath._

"Sounds . . . impulsive," she remarked, still not pulling away from him. Arthur let one palm stroke down her back, savoring the feel of her hair against the back of his hand.

"Yeah. I schedule all my spontaneity."

She burst into giggles at that, and it made the warmth pool again in the pit of his stomach. "Okay. Wine and cheese. I'll meet you there. What's the name of the gallery?"

"Noir Bois. Seventeen oh three, Rue Lascaux," Arthur murmured, brushing his nose against the crown of her head. The scent of Ariadne's hair was sweet, and this short business was starting to work for him.

"Time?"

"Around seven or so."

"All right," Ariadne agreed. She caught Arthur's gaze for a moment, holding it before speaking. "You're . . . you're not going to back out of this, are you? Because it took me a while to work up the courage to just—go for it like that."

"No," Arthur agreed gently. "I . . . appreciate your making a move on me." The minute he said that, he wanted to smack himself; the words sounded so formal and completely unromantic, but Ariadne beamed up at him, and her smile lit up her luminous brown eyes.

"Only you," she laughed softly, "could say it that way and I know you really _mean_ it, Arthur. You're . . . adorable."

"Take that back, right now," he protested dryly, trying not to smile. "it's not an adjective that fits me."

"Yes it is," she argued, and reluctantly pulled away from his gentle embrace. "Although I won't ever say so to anyone but you. I have to get going, but tomorrow, seven, at the gallery."

"We'll do dinner afterwards," Arthur told her as Ariadne picked up her satchel and began to hurry across the warehouse.

"Okay," came her agreement, floating behind her. And then Ariadne was gone, disappearing behind the big rolling door.

Arthur didn't know what to do. He wanted to run, to yell, to find some outlet for the sudden surge of raw energy coursing through his entire body. The joyful tension was still singing along his nerves, and as he paced, he checked his watch, wondering if the three-story rock wall at the mountaineering school was already booked or not.


	6. Chapter 6

The opening was well-attended, with the majority of guests talking in loud and self-important voices about conceptualization and emotional resonance while wandering through two floors squeezed between other, larger buildings. The art on the walls showcased two young artists who specialized in urban landscapes and city panoramas with beautiful results.

Arthur fought against checking his watch as he studied the large painting inside the front door of Noir Bois, and tried to focus on the composition of the piece. The dark background made the sweeping strokes of color bring out Petit Pont, and the twilight effect was remarkably beautiful. He debated on checking the price, wondering if Charlotte would like it as a Christmas present or not. It was hard to tell; she hadn't been to Paris since the Fifties, but Arthur knew she'd crossed Petit Pont herself several times.

He was nervous, and fighting hard against showing it. Arthur resisted the urge to pick up any of the champagne that was being offered by the caterers and quietly kept studying the painting.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" came a low voice, the accent British. "Like a dream of the bridge rather than a flat replication of the thing itself; a marriage of color and line to trick the eye and recreate Petit Pont from blobs and streaks. A remarkable skill, don't you think?"

The speaker was a spritely gentleman with a goatee and sad basset hound eyes, who smiled at Arthur as he waited for a reply.

Arthur nodded. "Remarkable is the word for it all right. I like her painting of the Notre Dame gargoyles too."

"Yes, those are very good as well," the gentleman agreed. "Between the two of us, I'd advise you to snap up any of her works you like; once the review of this show makes the press, the prices will justifiably go up."

"Thanks for the tip," Arthur replied earnestly. "I was considering the Petit Pont one for my aunt."

The man sighed, but his eyes twinkled. "In that case, I shall withdraw my bid on it and wish you the best of luck. Any nephew willing to give his aunt a present of that caliber deserves praise."

Arthur blushed a little. "Hey, you don't have to do that!"

The man waved a hand, smiling. "Tush! Good presents are hard to find; believe me, I speak from experience."

At that point a movement behind the man's shoulder caught Arthur's eye, and then Ariadne was there, slightly out of breath and looking stunning in a black sweater, the Koi scale scarf draped around her neck.

"Sorry I'm late; the train was a little slow," she began, and then realized she was interrupting. "Oh, excuse me," Ariadne murmured politely to the gentleman standing with Arthur.

"That's quite all right, my dear," the man smiled at her. "Alex De Montevallo, at your service."

"_Sir_ De Montevallo?" Arthur echoed, slightly stunned. The man nodded, looking modest.

"I much prefer Alex among friends," came the modest reply, "and anyone with an eye for good art is certainly a friend. You are-?" he prompted.

Arthur introduced himself, and Ariadne; Sir Alex brightened at her name. "Are you related to Professor Terpsichore Westwood by chance?"

"My mother," Ariadne admitted, and Arthur noted a sigh of resignation in her tone. He thought he understood; it was difficult at times to be in the shadow of a famous parent, particularly when you weren't following in the same field.

"How wonderful. Terpsi and I were on the same board of trustees for the Sutton Hoo expansion," Sir Alex mused. "Do give her my best when you see her again. Lovely to meet you both—" So saying, the man gave a gentle nod of his head and slipped off deeper in the gallery as Ariadne and Arthur watched him.

"The train—" Ariadne tried once more, but Arthur shrugged lightly.

"You're here now; that's what counts."

They both picked up champagne, and slowly began to wander through the gallery, studying the paintings and speaking briefly.

Arthur watched her out of the corner of his eye, enjoying her profile in the muted lighting, and curious as to what would appeal to her. She seemed to take each painting seriously, giving them all a thorough inspection before offering up an opinion.

Around them, other people stood and drank and clustered in little pools of conversation, with the occasional sentence trumpeting out loudly. Arthur contented himself in observing the event and his companion, taking it all in quietly. He was used to this sort of event, used to blending into the background and keeping to himself. Ariadne was quiet too, but hers was more a matter of thoughtfulness, and absorption. She was a sponge, taking in everything and Arthur sensed a shy pleasure in the process.

Ariadne circled back to one particular painting, waiting until other people had cleared out of the way before stepping closer to it. She tilted her head up and seemed to murmur something quietly; Arthur wondered what it was as asked her when she finally turned away.

"Oh. I was just remembering the first time I saw that view of Place de la Concorde two years ago. The artist really is extraordinary," she murmured gently. "Which one do _you _liked—the Petit Pont one?"

"Is it that obvious?" Arthur felt his eyebrows go up, and Ariadne smirked.

"You keep glancing at it," she pointed out, "and I can see why."

"I'm thinking of getting it for my aunt," he admitted, handing his empty champagne glass to a passing caterer. "For Christmas."

Ariadne nodded. "Beautiful gift, and you'd have time to have it shipped before the holiday."

He looked over his shoulder at it again, considering, and she nudged him when he looked back.

"Go, put in a bid," Ariadne urged him softly.

Arthur blinked. "Come with me," he asked, and she did. They made their way to the sheet pinned under the painting, and he noticed Alex De Motavallo's name neatly run through with an inked line. Arthur put his own bid in, feeling a surge of apprehension in his stomach; Charlotte would chide him for his extravagance, but love the painting just the same.

When he looked at Ariadne, she solemnly winked. That little unexpected gesture of camaraderie made him smile, and he handed her one of the pens from the cup.

"Your turn," he intoned, and gestured with his head to the Place de la Concorde painting. Ariadne squared her shoulders and spun on one heel, marched over and wrote her name and bid on the sheet hanging near it.

When she returned to Arthur's side, she gave a soft laugh. "Done. Neither of us might get them, but we definitely wouldn't if we didn't at least try."

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "Trying makes the difference."

It was a trite observation but for some odd reason it held new resonance when he looked at her, and she blushed, sipping the last of her champagne.

The accident was stupid, and in hindsight, could have been much worse. The stone steps leading up to the gallery door had gotten icy, and the wind had picked up as well. As they were leaving, Ariadne moved to grab the railing and she slipped. Arthur snagged her arm to steady her and ended up skidding himself, twisting and by bad luck, spearing his coat sleeve along the spiked points of the fence. The London Fog raincoat resisted but finally tore as Arthur fought to keep his footing, and Ariadne braced herself, looping an arm around his waist.

"Arthur!" she demanded, looking with horror at his arm. He glanced down, swore softly, and tugged; the final strip of fabric ripped loudly, leaving a gaping gash down his left sleeve. "Your arm—"

"S'okay," he grunted manfully, probing the damage with a gloved hand. "I've had a Tetanus booster in the last few years."

"That wasn't my _first _concern," she snapped with mild sarcasm, "but it's good to know. Come on, we've got to get you seen."

"Ariadne, no—it's not that bad," Arthur countered. "Some antiseptic and Band-Aids and I'll be fine."

"You don't _know_ that," she grumbled, moving closer and trying to peer at his arm. "Are you bleeding?"

"A scrape," he admitted. "Nothing serious."

Then he made the mistake of wincing when she lightly probed.

"That's it; we're going to my place," Ariadne informed him quietly. "Look, I have an idea of why you may not want to go strolling into a clinic, Arthur, but you're going to have trouble trying to clean this on your own. Just humor me, please?"

He shrugged; Arthur knew she was right on both counts, but the embarrassment stung almost as much as the gash along the underside of his arm. Ariadne grumbled under her breath, but when she looked from his arm up into his face, her expression was more concerned than angry.


	7. Chapter 7

Her place was closer, and they made their way from the train station along a few blocks until the familiar apartment steps were in sight once again. It was cold enough that Arthur could see his breath, and the sting of his arm had settled into a throb. His unseen assessment was that it wasn't deep, but the point had been dull, and there would be some bruising as well. His sleeve fluttered in the gusting wind, and by the time Ariadne unlocked the door with her key he was glad to be out of the chill.

"This way," she led him down a clean quiet lobby to an elevator, ushering him in. Arthur followed, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to clean up. Tingles of nervousness shot through him and he fought them back, striving for calm, difficult as it was.

Her apartment was on the fifth floor, in the back of the building. As Ariadne opened the door and welcomed him in, Arthur was aware of . . . space. The rooms were done in glossy dark hardwood floors, with glass and green marble bookcases along the white walls. There was a cozy reading nook in the living room; a plush sofa in a brocade pattern of old maps, and white wicker tables and a good floor lamp nearby. A small computer table of glass was tucked in a corner, and a collection of mechanical drawings were framed along one wall. Arthur recognized them as Ferris wheels.

"Okay, come into the kitchen," Ariadne directed as she peeled off her own coat and hung it on a stand in the hall. "I've got disinfectant and some gauze . . . take off your shirt—"

"You like giving orders," he observed, keeping a straight face.

Ariadne spun, ready to defend herself and paused, cocking her head. "If I didn't, you'd probably stand there and drip blood until I suggested something," she told him.

"And your point is?" Arthur followed Ariadne around a corner and found a galley kitchen with silver wire cabinets and scarred black marble countertops.

Ariadne fished under the sink and pulled out a woven basket. "My point is that I'm not crazy about people bleeding. Come on, come on—" she waved at his shirt, and then turned to run some water in the sink.

Arthur slowly took off the damaged London Fog, setting it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and reluctantly added his suit coat to it.

Ariadne shot him a sidelong glance of amused exasperation. "Overcoat, coat, vest, tie—exactly how many layers do you have ON, Arthur?"

"It's winter," he snapped back, sliding the knot out of his tie. "If there's one thing I DO know, it's how to dress for the weather."

Ariadne held a washcloth under the water and took a moment to wring it out. Arthur painfully peeled off his vest, feeling the renewed sting as he shifted his shoulder. "Okay, maybe this _does _hurt a little . . ."

He moved to undo the shirt buttons, but Ariadne stepped closer and began to pluck them open, her smaller, quicker fingers making short work of the job. Arthur slid his good arm free, and then slowly began to peel the sleeve down on the wounded one, but Ariadne was staring elsewhere.

"What?" he looked at her, feeling the start of a blush.

"That's . . . an undershirt. You're wearing an undershirt," she pointed out.

"Yes," Arthur agreed patiently. "Some men do."

"I know, but generally you don't see those as part of regular clothing on men outside the Thirties and Forties," Ariadne remarked, biting her lips. "God, you're such an enigma at times, Arthur. You dress like Jimmy Stewart in his heyday, you realize that, don't you?"

"Not all the time," he retorted. He would have argued the point, but she was close again, close enough that her perfume tickled his nose.

"Well I like it," Ariadne murmured approvingly. "Let's see your arm."

In the light of the kitchen, the gash proved to be slightly worse than Arthur's initial assessment, and the blood was oozing sluggishly along a five inch slash. Ariadne wiped it tenderly with the washcloth as Arthur watched, and fought the surge of interest that twitched through his loins.

"You're damned lucky you weren't impaled on that thing," Ariadne reminded him quietly. "I don't think it needs stitches, but it's going to hurt for a while."

"You're not going to put mercurochrome on it are you?" he demanded. "I hate that stuff."

"Um, I hate to tell you this, but that stuff's been off the market since the late Eighties," Ariadne informed him, amused. "Welcome to modern medicine."

Arthur snorted, but the touch of the washcloth felt nice, as did having Ariadne so close. He started to relax.

"Take your undershirt off."

Instantly tense again, Arthur flinched. "Why?"

"There's blood on it. I'll wash and dry it for you," Ariadne replied absently. "That will give you some time to let the painkillers work."

"I can just get a cab," he argued, but half-heartedly. "Really."

"It's not a problem," Ariadne replied. "I've got a sweatshirt you can borrow while the shirts are washing. We can order something and still have dinner—that is, if you'd like."

He caught a hint of uncertainty in her tone, and Arthur realized she was nervous; that Ariadne was as tentative in her own way as he was in his. Looking at her, he gave a quick, curt nod.

"Okay. Thanks. I _was_ going to take you to Lascalles," he confessed. "Ragout du Norde, the whole nine yards."

Her eyes widened, and a faintest quirk at one corner of her mouth warmed him. "I'm . . . impressed."

"Yeah, well I don't think we're going to make it—at least, not tonight," he sighed. "Damn ice."

Ariadne gave a shrug. "It could have been worse," she pointed out quietly. "Let me go get the sweatshirt."

When she'd stepped out of the room, Arthur cautiously peeled off his undershirt, hissing in pain as he flexed his damaged arm. Blood had stained the armhole, and although it wasn't a lot, it was wet and sticky enough to make for an unpleasant patch. Arthur dabbed the washcloth along his bare ribs, cleaning what he could, unprepared for Ariadne's little gasp of surprise.

He turned, looking at her, and could feel a blush beginning along his face. "What?"

"Nothing. Just . . ." she trailed off, eyes big. "Let's get a bandage on it."

00oo00oo00

"This . . . is a little . . ." Arthur said, trying to tug the bottom edge of the Sorbonne sweatshirt down.

"—short," Ariadne replied with a very Gallic shrug. "It was a gift from a friend of mine who was pretty clueless about sizes, so I usually wear it as a nightshirt on really _cold_ nights."

The image flashed in Arthur's head and he savored it for a moment: doll-like Ariadne in nothing but her baggy sweatshirt, legs bare and tantalizing . . .

He coughed to clear the vision, and tried to look anywhere but at her. "Yeah, I've got some flannel pajamas myself. Really hideous plaid, but they've gotten me through some rough Maine winters."

"Maine," Ariadne echoed, looking interested. "I thought you sounded a little like an East coast man. What part of Maine?"

And they were off. Arthur found himself in the odd position of offering up information he hadn't thought about in years; generally he kept close-mouthed about his past, but Ariadne kept nodding, asking questions and drawing him out.

She heard about Charlotte and Alden and Hannah in due course, and the years at Brewster Bay where Arthur had passed the majority of his childhood outdoors.

That, apparently they had in common. Ariadne offered up her own story as they waited for the dinner order to show up; years in Greece and Italy, being raised at every major European archeological dig of the last twenty years by a famous mother, a dedicated Canadian nanny and several dogs.

Some of it Arthur knew already from the background check he'd done with Dom first brought her onboard, but he kept silent, enjoying the stories.

"I had languages down pretty well, and the humanities," Ariadne murmured. "Had to push for the sciences though—Mom didn't think much of them. Still doesn't."

The doorbell rang, and Arthur snagged his wallet, moving smoothly to the door before Ariadne had even managed to get uncurled from her position on the sofa. On the other side of the door, the thin, dark-eyed delivery girl shivered, wet but smiling.

Arthur took the two bags and handed her several Euros more than the tab, waving off her offer to make change. She beamed, and he felt good about it as he watched her head back down the apartment hallway.

Then Ariadne slipped behind him and reached around for the bags and the warm sweet press of her along his spine felt amazing. Arthur froze, unsure whether to turn or not.

"Let go," Ariadne murmured with a laugh in her voice. "I'm hungry, and I'm in a good position to tickle you."

"That would be . . . regrettable," Arthur found his voice. "Very, very regrettable."

"Be-cause you're ticklish?" She asked from somewhere behind his wounded arm.

"Because I'm a firm believer in retaliation, Ari," he warned her, and in that warm moment, he felt something shift within him.

Ariadne laughed, and snagged a bag from his grip, her swift move worthy of a purse-snatcher. "*You're* the one with your ribs exposed, _Artie."_

"No," he turned his expression grave. "Never, never call me Artie. That's even _more_ regrettable than tickling."

"_More_ regrettable," she challenged, looking up into his face with an expression just as serious, despite her twinkling eyes. "Yes, I'm terrified now. But you can't get away with it. You can't just call me Ari and expect me to let that go."

He carried the heavier back to the coffee table and let her unpack it, thinking silently for a moment. "Okay then."

"Okay what?" Ariadne asked, suspicious despite the hint of a smile on her lips.

"Okay, you can find something to call _me._ Within reason," Arthur amended quickly. "I'm not going to answer to anything I deem stupid."

Ariadne pulled out the Styrofoam bowl of soup and peeled back the lid, taking a deep sniff before cocking her head. "Okay. When I figure it out, I'll let you know."

"Thanks," he shot back, wandering over and helping her pull out the neat white cartons of grilled salmon and foil tubes of French bread. "Glad you understand these things."


	8. Chapter 8

They ate, relaxing on the sofa and Arthur was careful not to spill. The potage was excellent, although he thought the salmon was a little dry. Ariadne had a decent bottle of white, and they each had a glass, eating easily while the conversation between them moved from one topic to another, nothing too serious for the most part.

Arthur was aware that a definite undercurrent was threading its way through the evening, a subtle but sweet flirtatiousness buoyed up by Ariadne's glances and his own gazes. It felt like standing on the ice again, striving for balance and dignity, but challenging just the same. As he finished his second glass of wine, the dim sound of distant cathedral bells caught his ear, and he realized guiltily how late it was.

Ariadne heard it too, and looked up, her small shoulders flexing. "Eleven," she murmured regretfully.

"I should get going," he nodded, and she rose to go bring his shirts from the dryer.

It was only when Arthur pulled the sweatshirt off that he caught the heat in her eyes, and the sudden rush of desire flared through him, taking his breath for a second with raw sweet speed. In that second he saw himself in Ariadne's eyes, shirtless and lean, ribs visible against the pale skin of his torso.

He shivered, ever so slightly, and that tiny gesture tore the gentle and polite restraints that had kept them apart; Ariadne lunged into his arms and Arthur pulled her up against his chest, blindly seeking her mouth.

Hot, sweet, delicious. Arthur groaned against her lips, the pleasure almost too intense for him. She was warm and slightly flavored with wine and . . . and . . . pushy, he realized with a grin. Ariadne's hands were on his torso, stroking his bare flanks.

"Hey, hey . . ." he gasped, pulling back a second to look down into her face. "What's with the hands?"

Ariadne looked guilty for precisely a tenth of a second, and then purred. "Oh come on—all that bare, beautiful skin? You can't blame a woman for wanting to feel you up a little."

He laughed at the absurdity of the thought, but Ariadne kept staring up at him, and she wasn't joining in. Arthur let his chuckles fade and gave her a wry look. "Give me a break. I'm eighty percent tendon."

"Beg to differ," she murmured, and her fingers skittered along his ribs, coming up to brush his pecs. "You're talking to someone who's looked at a lot of male torsos . . . in _marble_, that is," Ariadne amended, blushing again, and Arthur _had_ to laugh at that.

"Oh really?"

"Yes," she sulked for a moment. "Archeologist's kid, remember? I've had more statues, busts and caryatids in my face than I care to remember, but my _point_ is that you're very good-looking, Point Man."

The blush started somewhere around his throat; he felt it skim up across his face with the speed and heat of a brush fire.

"Okay, no. My ears stick out, I've got squinty eyes and completely forgettable features," Arthur argued while her hands stroked his chest. He supposed he should stop her, particularly while protesting, but Ariadne's fingers were warm and felt amazing on his exposed flesh. "I'm the _least_ memorable person you're ever going to meet. I've worked HARD for that trait."

"You'll have to work harder," Ariadne murmured, the corners of her mouth going up.

He shook his head, not sure how to respond to her statement, and savoring her persistent touch at the same time. She had small strong hands, and when they skimmed over his nipples, Arthur gritted his teeth against the urge to groan.

"Your body's a classic," Ariadne told him. "Lean, efficient. You'd be a great Spartan; a true Marathoner. No padding at all on your ass, I bet."

He had to stop her from talking; from saying these ridiculous things, so Arthur kissed her again. The brush of her sweater, and the silk of the scarf against his chest made tingles flare through him. She spluttered a giggle against his mouth, and when he pulled back to look at her questioningly, Ariadne slipped her arms around his back.

"Sorry, sorry, I just . . . I know a diversionary tactic when I feel one."

"You're not supposed to be thinking about my ass," Arthur chided her. "I'm going to end up incredibly self-conscious now, wondering if you're staring at it."

"I can't; I'm in front of you," she pointed out with infuriatingly sweet logic. "And the view here is pretty nice too."

"You're nuts."

"Maybe," Ariadne told him gently, leaning in to press a soft kiss along the hollows at the front of his throat. "But you're half-naked and in my arms, so I consider that the best sort of dessert possible."

He tensed a little, and gave her a serious look. "Ari . . . you know I was married."

Her head bobbed and her expression grew serious and a little more guarded. "Yes. Dom said so."

"He told you?" Arthur muttered, surprised.

She shook her head. "I asked. You and he had the luxury of recruiting us; Yusuf and I didn't get to do background checks, you know. Anyway, I asked, and Dom mentioned you were divorced."

"Yeah. About seven years ago," Arthur began, heavily. "It wasn't exactly amicable."

"Is she . . . still in the picture?" Ariadne asked forthrightly.

"No," Arthur assured her with quiet vehemence. "Tess is long gone." He studied the part in Ariadne's hair and sighed. "We lasted less than three years; she cheated on me when . . ."

"When?"

"When I wouldn't change my mind about not having kids," Arthur finished bluntly. "That was one of the big issues, one we didn't really . . . resolve."

He tensed, waiting for the questions, the tell-tale signs of disappointment in her eyes. Instead, Ariadne tightened her arms around him in a firm hug. Arthur hesitated, surprised by the silent gesture, but after a few seconds he hugged back, and the flood of comfort in the deed made it impossible for him to speak for a long, long while.

Ariadne pressed her cheek against his bare chest, and eventually, she murmured, "I'm sorry you were hurt by her."

He found his voice, and it was hoarse. "Thanks."

Arthur kept holding her, because the feel of Ariadne in his arms was right; a good fit full of comfort. He still wanted her, but this other facet was unexpected, and just as sweet. This . . . security.

"I don't really feel like letting you go," Ariadne mumbled. "And it's not just for . . . this."

Arthur realized he felt much the same way, and was glad that she couldn't see his expression at that moment. "I'm not complaining."

They stood entwined together, quiet and comfortable, and Arthur understood that for the first time in years he was completely relaxed with someone inside his personal space. Ariadne didn't feel like a separate entity; she was a part of his consciousness when she was this close.

It was both unnerving and exciting as hell. He cleared his throat in the rush of realization, and Ariadne brushed her lips against the soft tuft of chest hair between his pecs. "Well for what it's worth, I think your ex lost out on someone amazing, Arthur."

Astounded, he pulled back, looking down at her, and Ariadne met his gaze; held it calmly.

"How the hell do you keep doing that?" he asked, blinking. "You make these statements that at any other time I'd be able to brush off, but they slip under the wire and ambush me. What do I _say_ to something like that?"

She pulled away, a little of her confidence gone. "You don't have to say _anything_," Ariadne murmured. She looked away. "Let me get your shirt . . ."

He could have kicked himself. The warm, golden moment faded, and in its wake was an awkwardness that Arthur wasn't sure how to breech. He carefully pulled on his undershirt and shirt, buttoning them up while Ariadne quietly carried out the dishes from dinner to the kitchen.

Nothing came to mind. He paced a moment, then scooped up his overcoat and stood in the living room. Ariadne drifted out of the kitchen, coming close, but not close enough.

He looked at the floor.

"Thank you for dinner." Ariadne was smiling, but it was slightly sad as she said it. He opened his mouth but nothing more came out. Arthur nodded instead, and slowly walked to the door. She followed behind, out of arm's reach, hovering slightly.

He turned. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Ariadne shrugged, blinking.

"For not being as wonderful as you think I am," Arthur told her heavily. "There's a lot you don't know about me. A lot that isn't nice or good, Ari, and I'm not going to change. Not even for someone as beautiful and incredible as you. I don't . . . I _can't_, bend."

Ariadne stared at him for a moment longer and he caught a flash of quick fury deep within her eyes, but her small shoulders stayed relaxed.

"You said 'yes'" she reminded him in a voice that wobbled just the tiniest bit. "And whatever else you think you are, Point Man, you're a man of your word. I'm going to Aisne for a couple of days, and when I get back, you either take me to dinner, or take back your scarf."

And somehow, she managed to open the door, herd him out, stand on tiptoe, kiss him deeply and slam the door, all in a fluid economy of motion that left Arthur standing in the hall, stunned, aching and all too aware that his pulse was galloping.

He swayed for a moment, then dropped his forehead onto her door for a second as he scooped up the remnants of his pride, and slunk away.


	9. Chapter 9

Sleep eluded him, and Arthur took himself to the warehouse when the first rays of dawn began to touch the sky. He collected the mail—noting the cheery postcard from Eames and a collection of small padded envelopes from Yusuf—and spend a few hours meticulously cleaning each Dream Synchronizer, working his way through each intravenous line and chemical connection with a tiny set of surgical tools. The work demanded his full attention, and for that he was grateful.

Once it was over, however, Arthur scowled and looked around the warehouse, searching desperately for something _else _to occupy his penance. He settled on sweeping out debris on the floors, and putting all the supplies in orderly stacks in the steel cabinets.

The events kept re-playing in his head, and Arthur cursed himself each time he mentally watched saw how he'd stepped back from what Ariadne was offering. The most damnable part was knowing full well exactly _why_ he'd done what he'd done. For a man dedicated to action, the inability to go and make things right festered in him; Ariadne couldn't have chosen a better strategy if she'd planned it.

In a foul mood, he finished up the cleaning, found he was hungry, and took off for a little boulangerie a few blocks over. Arthur stepped inside and ordered tersely at the counter, receiving a quick guarded look from the little old lady there. She wrapped the baguette up in paper and took his coins, shaking her head; the sight annoyed him enough that he asked her what was wrong.

"Forgive me, but Monsieur is very . . . frightening today," the baker told him, her eyes wary, but kind.

Arthur gave a quick nod, feeling ashamed of himself for projecting his anger. "Monsieur has been . . . stupid," he told her in his overly-formal French. "And now is paying for that."

"Ahhh," the woman nodded. "Sometimes the price we pay for love comes very dear."

"I didn't say anything about love," Arthur protested, feeling warm under the collar.

The baker shot him a sweetly skeptical look and shrugged, the gesture iconically French. "But this is Paris; what else could it possibly be?" she pointed out, her logic irrefutable.

He laughed; she joined in, and the emotional sunbeam lightened his mood considerably. Arthur tucked the loaf under one arm, smiled at her, and sauntered out, feeling better.

After stopping at the fromagier, Arthur made his way down to the little park that stood framed between one of the older churches and several ancient apartment buildings. The park itself was pre-WWII and held majestic oaks that lined the gravel walkways. He found a bench that faced one of the mossy edges of the reflecting pond and had lunch, musing over matters.

Ariadne mattered to him, Arthur thought without hesitation. She mattered in ways beyond any professional association. The girl had gotten under his skin from the first day, and he hadn't anticipated it at all. Since Tess, he'd been leery of relationships with women; polite and little more with most of them. But Ariadne had simply sauntered into his thoughts and in her blunt, determined way, taken charge.

He smirked to himself, feeling a sense of exasperation mingled with something deeper; Arthur threw a wad of bread out onto the water, absently watching the ducks cluster quickly for it. Taking another bite of bread, he chewed, and remembered the first time he'd seen Ariadne, and how cheerful Cobb had been when introducing her.

Doll-like, and solemn-eyed, that had been Ariadne at first; he'd watched her extend a small hand his way, and his first impression had been that of a sprite stepping out of an ancient forest. It was pure fancy on his part, spurred by her wavy hair and dark eyes, but the imagery stayed with him at times, and he could picture her moving silently through some shaded glade or fern filled glen, a twinkle to her lips.

It was precisely the sort of frivolous thought he never shared with anyone, and kept at arm's length during the day. At night though, in the quiet darkness when sleep eluded him, Arthur played with the gentle whim, expanding it and others in a secret indulgence of imagination that even Eames never suspected. The daydreams mingled with fantasies of a more earthy nature of course; Arthur felt only a twinge of guilt at the admission. Ariadne, for all her petite size _was_ a woman, and he appreciated that factor, if only in his private pleasures.

He tossed another hunk of bread out along the pond in a swift throw.

Private pleasures.

If he'd had stopped there he would have been fine, Arthur thought. Dreaming of making love to Ariadne was a delicious fantasy, but it had a limit, and after even the most intense scenario he knew it was no more real than any Dream. There was a bitterness to that; and Arthur felt he deserved it. Someone like Ariadne merited more than a humorless Extractor. She was younger; she was worthy of a shot at a real future instead of the limits he imposed on himself.

_And yet,_ the thought popped up, as quickly and insidiously as an inception, _you love her._

"No." Arthur argued aloud, flinging yet another chunk of bread. "No!"

_Yes,_ his mind argued back. _You love her, you idiot._

Somewhere was a chorus of outraged quacking, but Arthur ignored it, wrestling with his own thoughts. "I don't. She's just . . ."

He stopped, because nothing came after that. Ariadne had no boundaries as far as his mind was concerned. Arthur twisted in agitation, mauling bread in his strong hands as he fought the new and aching truth now building inside of him.

_You LOVE her, and you're fucking terrified to admit it_, his thoughts mocked him. _That's right, genius. Somewhere along the line you fell HARD for the travel-size architect, and now you're having an argument in your own damned head with your common sense._

"Damn it!" Arthur growled, sending another chunk skipping over the water. More splashing and quacking, and this time a human yell of protest. He looked up to see a gendarme approaching him, and blinked.

"Ne nuisez pas aux canards! Cessez de les frapper avec du pain!" The stern-faced authority was bearing down on him, and immediately Arthur held his hands up in a pacifying manner.

What followed was a quick and stern lecture about respecting the sanctity of the park, the consequences of harming waterfowl, the hazards of littering, wrapping up with a warning not to waste good Parisian bread as ammo. The gendarme pointed a final warning finger and turned away. Red-faced, Arthur gathered up the remains of his lunch and balefully stared out at the paddling of fat, white ducks on the water.

They stared back just as suspiciously, and for one absurd moment, Arthur wondered which one had called for the gendarme. He pictured a small white cell phone, with a wallpaper of Donald or Daffy on it, and the ridiculous thought made him break out in a slow chuckle.

Suddenly he felt lighter.

_Okay,_ Arthur thought. _It's true. I am. What now?_

His inner voice offered no immediate answers, so Arthur strode away, slowly at first and then with a sense of increasing urgency.

He only had two days-

There were only two trains from Aisne, and Ariadne had not been on the ten o'clock one. Arthur checked his watch again, and then looked down the long line of tracks that fed into the station. The smell of snow was in the air, and low dull fog hung in the sky, obscuring any view of the distance.

He tried to relax, but the action never came easily to him, not even at the best of times, so Arthur contented himself with flexing his fingers as he considered his plans. So much hung on the first few moments, and although Arthur wasn't an expert in the matters of the heart, he did know Ariadne well enough to take a page from her book.

The distant chuff of engines broke into his thoughts, and he gave a small smile forcing himself to wait patiently. In time, the long streamlined shape of the Nord line came sliding into the station, shuddering to a halt, steam and exhaust filling the air. Voices called in rapid French, announcing the arrival over the intercom, and around him, Arthur felt the surge of the waiting crowd, blending in with the general air of anticipation.

The doors began to slide open, and the porters stepped out, followed by the first of the passengers. Alert, Arthur looked right and left, scanning all of the exiting passengers. No one matching Ariadne's size disembarked, and for a moment a twisted sense of panic touched Arthur's features. He kept looking, and when finally, *finally* the small, lithe figure emerged, Arthur moved, gliding up to her with sleek speed, there almost before she'd finished stepping down.

He didn't give her time to react, sweeping Ariadne into his arms and pulling her into a quick, possessive kiss, and then pulling back to study her expression.

It was gratifyingly startled, and made him almost as happy as her kiss had.

"Wow. You're . . . here . . ." she murmured, and her tone told him how uncertain she herself had been.

That sealed it. That small hesitation put the ground under Arthur's feet, and he cupped one hand around her cheek, tilting her face up.

"I'm an idiot, but I'm not a coward," he assured her, his voice slightly unsteady.

"Yes," she agreed, "and no."

"Which part is which?" Here she was, putting him off his stride almost immediately, and Arthur realized with a giddy sense of amusement that he liked it.

"Point Man, if you can't figure out—" Ariadne began, but before she could finish, Arthur pulled her backpack from her shoulder to his, and slid an arm around her waist, herding her away from the train and into the station. Ariadne let him, but her amused look told him she hadn't missed the deliberate deflection at all.

"This is the way I see it," Arthur began. "You need me as much as I need you. Your bullshit detector is fine-tuned and I won't be able to get away with anything. In turn, I'm pretty sure I can keep up with you no matter what you want."

"Oh really?" Ariadne countered. "Got this all figured out, do you?"

"I'm a slow learner, but once I pick up the clues, I retain the information," came his assurance. "Remedial romantic."

Ariadne snorted. They'd reached the parking lot and she glanced around, trying to figure out which rental car was Arthur's. A sleek Limo pulled up, and he opened the door.

Ariadne looked from it to Arthur.

He smirked. "Borrowed it from a friend."

Cautiously, like a cat exploring a new place, Ariadne slid inside. Arthur followed her, and settled in on the bench seat across from her, setting the back pack on the floor. Through the glass partition, the chauffeur began to drive, pulling the long car forward and through the parking lot of the train station.

"Oookay," Ariadne began, but Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

"Stop. Listen to me," he told her softly. "I'm serious. Had sort of an epiphany while beaning ducks the other day, and I know that doesn't make any sense to you but hear me out, Ari. I love you. This is a very big and scary deal to me because I take commitments pretty damned seriously. You gave me an ultimatum and I'm here."

Ariadne was biting her lips, her arms crossed, her eyes twinkling. She unfolded them and leaned forward until her jean-covered knees touched his.

"Beaning ducks. Pardon me while I check in with my totem, will you?"

"Be my guest."


	10. Chapter 10

Once she'd flicked her chess piece over and re-pocketed it, Ariadne cocked her head and looked at Arthur, her eyes locked on his. He returned the gaze as the limo drove on. "Where are we going?"

"We need to pick up a few things," He told her. "After that, the rest of the afternoon is . . . negotiable."

Ariadne considered this, and instead of protesting or demanding explanations she sat back against the plush velour seat and watched the suburbs of Paris flash by. Arthur studied her, enjoying the freedom to do so.

She was in jeans and a thick thermal tee-shirt, with a tweed jacket over that, and another scarf around her neck, this one a stringy green one with a long fringe. The limo moved from the highway into Paris itself and to the driver's credit, the big car continued to glide easily through the later afternoon traffic. Arthur was impressed; Sir Alex's driver had to be a native, well-versed in the combat driving required to travel the City of Lights. Ariadne looked as if she wanted to speak a few times, but stopped herself, and he wondered how long she would hold out.

Twenty minutes. After twenty minutes she finally sighed and shot him an impatient look. "Where are we going, Arthur?"

"We've got a few things to pick up," he repeated, just as the car turned up a familiar street, slowed and stopped. The driver stepped out and moved to open the door for them. Ariadne absently accepted his hand as she stepped out. "The art gallery?"

"Our bids were accepted," Arthur told her quietly, not mentioning the amount of negotiating it had taken to get both paintings.

She shot him a delighted look that shifted to suspicion. "Both of them?"

"Lot of lookers at the opening, not many serious bidders," he murmured, nodding to the driver and coming to stand next to Ariadne. "Come on—I need you to protect me from those dangerous spikes."

She glanced at the fence points and then back at him. "Is your arm okay?"

"You'll have to check for yourself," Arthur replied, straight-faced. "Later. Shall we go get our prizes?"

The owner of the Bois Noir was there, along with the artist, who effusively kissed Arthur and Ariadne on both cheeks and thanked them for their outstanding good taste in contemporary landscapes. She was a chubby young Parisian with heavy green eyeshadow and frizzy hair, who smelt of turpentine and licorice.

"Your talent is a pleasure," Ariadne told her politely, and Arthur nodded, discreetly handing over the bank check to the Gallery owner.

"Unique," he agreed.

After some polite small talk, Arthur accepted the two wrapped paintings, tucking them under one arm and stepping out with Ariadne. He avoided the railing and made it to the sidewalk in one piece just as the first whirling snowflakes began to fall.

"Where now—my place?" Ariadne asked, one hand reaching out to touch the brown paper around one of the paintings.

"Nope," Arthur told her. The limo pulled up again, and they climbed inside after handing the artwork to the chauffeur to store in the trunk.

"Arthur, I have a backpack full of dirty laundry and sketchbooks and I could use a hot shower," she grumbled softly. "Sweeping me off my feet is one thing, but hygiene is a factor."

"Patience," he chided, feeling a sense of mirth. "You need to keep in mind that you threw a pretty big gauntlet down, Ari. I'm just rising to the occasion."

"You meant that to sound smutty, didn't you?"

"Take it as you will," Arthur fought a smirk. "Ahh, here we are—"

The limo had pulled up in front of a small hotel on the edge of Parc des Buttes Chaumont. By now the snow was beginning to fall thickly, and the light was fading fast; most of the streetlights were coming on. Ariadne shot an uncertain look at Arthur.

"Two rooms, because I'm cautious and old-fashioned," he told her. "Neutral ground, if you like. I'm not going to invade your space."

"Where ARE we?" she asked, more in exasperation than wariness.

"_My_ place," Arthur told her simply. "I've got a room here and I've booked you next door."

Ariadne looked intrigued. "I thought . . . I thought you had oh, I don't know—an apartment. You're so fluent; it's clear you spend a lot of time here."

"One thing about the job," Arthur sighed, climbing out of the car behind her, "you need a home base, and I haven't picked one yet. Cobb had Tomales Bay, Yusuf has Mombasa, but me, I'm still looking. For the moment, Hȏtel DuMont works for me."

Hȏtel DuMont was a small, old-fashioned building built along the lines of a manor house. The main lobby was brightly lit, and filled with well-worn Louis XV furniture in gold and green. Arthur motioned to the left side, where a small cage elevator stood, and Ariadne snickered.

"Good lord, will it actually _work?"_

"It better," Arthur muttered in reply. "I'm not hauling these paintings up four flights of stairs."

That made her snicker again as she hefted her backpack and stepped in; the elevator shuddered with a rattle of metal. Arthur wedged himself in, holding the wrapped paintings carefully under one arm. He reached over and pressed the dimly flickering button marked 'quatre' in gothic script.

"This place is . . ." Ariadne began, and Arthur nodded, finishing the statement for her.

"Old. Built about 1817. Old enough that when the Germans occupied Paris, they left it alone, which turned out to be a good thing since they were harboring one of the underground presses. Yeah, the DuMont's got history to it. Tourists don't stay here because the place doesn't have cable or a pool, but me, I prefer it."

And he did, Arthur admitted to himself. The DuMont was a quiet old gem, the legacy of a family determined to keep it from the few developers who'd showed an interest in buying up the property. Fortunately, being on the outer fringes of the park kept it from high traffic, and Arthur paid well for the privilege of a northwest corner room.

The rickety shaking of the elevator belied its progress and they reached the fourth floor with relative speed, slowing and stopping with an audible clacking of various metal parts. Ariadne stepped off with alacrity, and Arthur followed. The hallway was carpeted in a thick diamond pattern with brown roses and smelled faintly of mildew. Arthur used his chin to point to the right, and Ariadne trailed after him as he led the way. Three rooms down and they reached the corner; Arthur pulled out a heavy brass key with a Bakelite tag and unlocked the door of 404.

"Not found?" Ariadne teased him, and he smiled as he ushered her in.

"I prefer not to be, most of the time," Arthur admitted. He carried the paintings in and leaned them against the wall, then waited until Ariadne turned to glance at him, and tossed her something.

It arced through the air and she reached out to catch it; another key on a tag, this one marked as 405. Ariadne smirked. "Ahh—method not allowed."

"Well, with the right permissions," Arthur murmured, feeling a blush cross his features. "It works for the next room over, so . . ."

Ariadne nodded, and looked around. Arthur's corner room had a lovely little living room with its own fireplace—gas—and furniture that looked somewhat sturdier than the antiques down in the lobby. The two armchairs and loveseat were done in broad wallpaper stripes of blue and cream, matching the colors of the Oriental rug under them, and instead of a closet, a heavy oak armoire stood off in an alcove.

The bed was a grand affair with a cranberry silk comforter and graceful posts rising from each corner. Both nightstands held a lamp with matching silk shades, fringed around the edges and from where she stood, Ariadne could make out a little stack of hardcover books on the right-hand table . . .

"Ow," came Arthur's grumble. He set the painting back down again and rubbed his arm. Ariadne came over to him, looking exasperated, and he gave a wry shake of his head. "Hey, you were staring at the bed, and frankly, that's really . . . distracting."

And it was, Arthur ruefully admitted to himself as he realized that Ariadne's coloring would look spectacular against that comforter.

"When did you last change your bandages?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts and trying to be business-like, although Arthur could see her faint blush.

"This morning. It's healing," he assured her calmly. "Are you hungry? There's a terrific little bistro just down the block."

When she nodded, Arthur let himself relax a bit. "Okay then. We'll drop your laundry off with Madame McTavish, and head on over."

"McTavish?" Ariadne echoed.

"Housekeeper," he offered. "She owes me a favor for debugging her laptop. She'll have it done by the time we get back."

Ariadne's lips twitched a bit, but she nodded, and shifted her backpack. "All right; let me unpack and sort some things out and I'll be right back."

"Sure." Arthur gestured vaguely to the connecting door. "I should see about getting the painting shipped." He moved to the laptop on the little secretary desk and popped it open, making every effort to appear nonchalant as he listened for Ariadne to move. She did, and the sound of the adjoining door opening made his pulse jump.

"Give me about ten minutes," she called to him and he heard the door close behind her.

Arthur fought the little tremble in his fingers as he typed up the address for DHL on the laptop.


	11. Chapter 11

Dinner had been good, he thought. They'd dropped off the laundry—Ariadne's things and a few shirts of his own—made their way to Pascal's, and had lamb shanks. Apparently the oncoming snow had kept most customers away, so the bistro was nearly empty.

They talked; Ariadne told him about sketching the cathedral at Laon, and collecting some layouts for future mazes. He watched her intently as she waved her hands, trying to convey the size of the cathedral, and the sight of them made him smile.

He told Ariadne about the latest job offers and about the letters from Yusuf, detailing a few new trends in sedatives including one that was geared for children.

"Kids?" Her concern was obvious and Arthur nodded slowly.

"Therapy, nothing more. Sometimes psychologists find going in and studying a patient's dreams to be helpful in diagnosis and treatment."

He watched her struggle for a second, a question in her eyes, so he nodded to encourage her. "Yeah?"

"May I ask . . . why . . . ?"

Arthur felt his body tense, but he forced himself to relax, and lowered his voice. "Because I wouldn't be a good father. Look, my parents were a pair of alcoholics who had to be forced by a court to turn me over to my grandparents and aunt. Yeah I was raised in a loving household from that point on, but I'm aware of what the responsibilities of kids mean, and right now I'm not in any sort of situation to take that on."

She stared at him, and Arthur was aware that her expression was . . . supportive. Ariadne slid a hand over to touch his, gently. "Good."

"Good?" It wasn't quite the response he expected, but then again, this was Ariadne, and nothing was predictable about her.

"Yes," she replied firmly. "I won't claim to be in the same boat, because despite all her bohemian ways, my mother did a good job with me, but I'm not interested in taking on anything as serious as kids. At least, not for a long, long time, _if _ever."

Arthur nodded, feeling the tightness in his chest relax a bit. These important points of commonality mattered, and although he'd suspected Ariadne had a view similar to his own, it was nice to hear it confirmed.

"I mean I like kids—Dom's anyway. But generally . . . I don't relate to them very well . . ." he trailed off, aware that Ariadne was on the verge of giggling. "What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking that I'd like to head back and warm my toes at your fireplace," she told him.

"Sure," he managed in a voice that was almost steady, "but you know, we don't have to . . ."

"I know," Ariadne agreed quietly, "let's just see how it goes."

It was precisely the right thing to say, and the little thrum of anticipation that had been purring through Arthur's subconscious for days now shifted to a higher gear, spurred by the optimism in Ariadne's smile.

He tipped the bistro waiter outrageously high and slid his non-injured arm around Ariadne guarding her from the heavy, fluffy snow flurries that whirled around them. The walk back to the DuMont was tricky as they both averted their faces from the blinding whiteness. Already the cars moving down the dark wet road had their headlights on, and the streetlights were casting a dim glow along the sidewalk.

"Doing okay?" he called to her; Ariadne's reassuring squeeze along his arm felt good, and in no time they were bustling through the lobby, shaking off the damp.

When they stepped into the elevator, Arthur felt Ariadne press closer, and look up at him. The snow had left a few flakes in her hair and they glittered. "We need to check your arm," she told him.

He was about to protest, but there was a gleam in her soft whisky-colored eyes that stopped him, a direct promise that despite her words, the process wouldn't be exactly medical.

Fumbling with the key, Arthur managed to unlock the door, and Ariadne scooted in around him, darting for the fireplace. She had pressed the button for the gas ignition and was adjusting the flames even before he'd gotten his overcoat hung up, and when Arthur moved over to the little living room, Ariadne had taken off her shoes peeled her socks off. Her small feet looked pale under the wet hem of her jeans, but she dropped herself gracefully on the rug and stretched her legs out, giving a blissful sigh.

Arthur looked down. "I take it medical attention can wait?"

"Just for a minute or two," came her contented murmur. "At least until some feeling comes back in my toes, please."

"Okay," he agreed, and sat down beside her with a small groan. She laughed and leaned against him, wigging her toes and examining them. "You know, growing up around the Mediterranean has left me pretty thin-skinned."

"You would have hated Oslo then," Arthur pointed out. Ariadne reached for the laces of one of his shoes and he arched a questioning eyebrow at her.

"Come on, your feet will thank you later," she promised.

"You didn't mention this bohemian streak before," he pretended to protest, tickled by the flirtatious tone of her voice. "And *my* feet are not particularly attractive, Ari. The kindest term is 'boney."

She ignored him and tugged, pulling both shoes and socks off before lightly running a hand over his feet. Arthur fought a flinch.

"Slightly hairy toes," Ariadne observed. "Sign of virility you know."

"According to-?" he demanded, staring at his feet, which were easily twice as big as hers.

"Oh lots of people—Pope Constantine, William the Conqueror, Claire Booth Luce," Ariadne replied. "It's pretty well documented."

Arthur snorted. "Yeah, I'd like specific citations. Fire does feel good though."

It did, and the crackle as snow drifted down the chimney was a cheery sound in the semi-darkness of the room.

"Arthur," she murmured, and he turned to look at her.

She was beautiful, sitting with her feet extended towards the flames, her hair still damp with melting snow. Arthur looked at Ariadne and the simple act of waiting for her next words made him keenly aware of how new and frightening this all was. Of how much he wanted her on every level he could have her.

Of how she'd been the braver one in this slow, sweet process.

"Yeah?"

"Let's go to bed."

Her words simply, sweetly turned his brain off. Arthur got to his bare feet, held out a hand and pulled her up, into his arms. He kissed Ariadne, the delicious shock of her mouth soft and welcoming under his, and when Ariadne's tongue teased his, he groaned.

He went slow.

Inside, Arthur wanted to rush, but forced his body to match the pace that Ariadne set, and so they kissed their way to the bed, and she sat at the foot, reaching for his vest buttons, looking up at him with eyes that gleamed in the firelight.

"Ari," he began, but she seemed to sense his trepidation, and tugged up one corner of her shirt to reveal her hip, and above it, a flesh-colored contraceptive patch. The sight of it both reassured and startled him, enough so that when she began to tug on his vest, he blinked.

"Arthur," she breathed, "I'm not good at reading minds. Is this too much? Too fast?"

He smiled. It was easy to reach down and cup her face, feeling her velvety skin against his palms as he bent to kiss her softly. "No," he replied against her mouth. "It's just right."

Arthur felt her dimples under his fingertips as she smiled back.

The leisurely joy of undressing each other was a foreplay new to him; Arthur particularly liked unwinding Ariadne's scarf and tugging it off to reveal her graceful neck. They took turns, one article of clothing at a time, and when he reached her shirt, he bit back a groan as he tugged it off of her. Ariadne's delicate frame was pale and muscled; her bra was a sweet wisp of a thing encasing the pert swell of her chest.

When she managed to get his own shirt off, it was time to stretch out on the bed because Arthur didn't think he'd be able to stay standing much longer. He loomed over her and climbed up on all fours, making Ariadne laugh as she scooted herself back and up along the mattress. The touch of her fingers over his bare chest sent hard shivers through him, good, urgent shivers.

"Pants," she whispered, and fumbled with his button and fly, giggling softly with embarrassment and desire, her hands pulling impatiently with the material. Arthur didn't care; he was too busy kissing the side of her neck, tasting the warm skin under his lips. She shuddered with pleasure even as she struggled with his slacks. "You're . . . distracting me!" came Ariadne's protest.

"Turnabout is damned fair play," Arthur reminded her in a mumble, nuzzling behind her ear.

She squirmed, managed to undo the zipper and slipped one hand in, cupping his erection through his boxers. "Ohhhkaaay, that's big."

"You say the nicest things," Arthur groaned again. "Come here—"

He rolled, pulling Ariadne to him, and they both began slipping out of the rest of their clothing, stopping periodically to kiss and caress. The first sight of Ariadne in the nude sent a hot, urgent jolt through Arthur, a primitive throb of desire that nearly threatened to overwhelm him. She was so damned beautiful, so perfect in size and design. He couldn't stop touching her, running his hands over her warm skin, admiring the curves and caressability of her body. It was as if now having gotten permission to touch, Arthur couldn't stop, didn't_ want_ to stop touching her.

Then Ariadne began touching back, and the feel of her hands moving over his own skin made his breathing erratic. She played with the patch of dark fur in the middle of his chest, traced the hard flat muscles down his stomach, then finally pushed him onto his back, and straddled him, her long hair spilling over her shoulders as she smiled down at him. "Hey there, Point Man."

No coherent reply was possible, not with the warm naked weight of Ariadne on his frame. His erection throbbed, bumping wetly against her and she chuckled, reaching down between their bodies and gripping it. "You know, I think we both need this," she muttered, and shifted, angling his shaft and lightly pressing herself down on it.

_So hot, slick, tight-_The growl that left Arthur's throat echoed in the room, joined by Ariadne's groan of delight, and their primitive delight mingled together in a sensual melody.

He thrust, trying to go slow, but it was impossible. Arthur wrapped his long arms around her, pulling her down, and Ariadne kissed him, small frantic moans slipping from her mouth to his as she rocked against him.

They slid into a quick, blistering rhythm, bodies synchronized in slick beats against each other. The pleasure pulsed and built with every stroke, and Arthur forced himself to slow down. The surge of his orgasm was rising, a throbbing urge that made his nipples ache, but he kept kissing Ariadne, rubbing his hands along her long waist and slender back as she moved with him.

"Ohhhhh," was all she gasped a few minutes later, as if surprised, and Arthur saw her eyes close, felt her body tense in quick pulses under his fingers and around his cock, squeezing tight. That was all it took. Long hot waves of pleasure rolled through the muscles of his stomach as he came _hard,_ groaning with every plunge.

Ariadne slumped onto him, hair tumbling everywhere, and he tightened his arm around her waist to anchor her even as he slid into that blissful moment of post-orgasmic black-out. Every muscle throughout his body relaxed, and Arthur drifted, feeling absolute joy for the first time in many, many years.


	12. Chapter 12

"Mmmmmmmyou smell good." She whispered, hours later. Night made the room dark, and the only light came from the fire they'd forgotten to shut off in the fireplace. Arthur enjoyed the sensation of Ariadne spooned behind him, her small arm around his waist.

"Thanks. You do too," he assured her, rolling to face the woman in his bed, and feeling absurdly glad to see her there. She was on her side now, head propped up on one hand, smiling in the dim light.

"I thought this would be more awkward," Ariadne mused, and she reached to touch his shoulder.

"Because we're professionals who work together?" Arthur mirrored her gesture, aware of how warm her skin was, how addictive it was to stroke. Ariadne laughed, and snuggled closer, her breath warm against his throat.

"Because I think you look better without clothes than in them, frankly. Hell, Arthur, you've got a very nice body. I wasn't kidding when I compared you to the classics, you know," came her chuckled reply.

He could feel his blush, the heat racing down his skin. "I draw the line at nude extractions, Ari."

"Yeah, I guess that could get . . ." her fingers slid down his stomach, along the trail of fur under his belly button, ". . . distracting."

"Unnnnghh—" Arthur pulled the covers back and glanced down. "Speaking of distractions . . ."

"Part of being an architect has to do with multiple modalities," Ariadne informed him, her clever fingers encircling his thickening shaft. "As a result, I'm good with touch; I like to touch _you."_

"So I feel, and see," Arthur groaned softly. "But I'm a firm believer is mutuality myself; sensual democracy as it were."

"You're still an American, even in Paris," came her tease. "And I think I'm starting to understand why you're called the Point Man."

"Hey, hey—none of that," Arthur growled around a crooked grin. "I can't have the nickname associated with . . ." he flexed in her fingers, making her chuckle.

"Mmmmm, well that's up to you," she smiled, rolling onto her back, "But I'll probably be thinking it each time I use it."

"You know, I suspected you'd be trouble from the first time I saw you," Arthur mused, rubbing his nose down between her breasts and heading towards her small dimple of a belly button. "You walked in with Cobb and I told myself you were going to be real handful."

"Really?" Ariadne sounded delighted; although he was too busy nuzzling her flat stomach to respond verbally. She squirmed when he reached her navel, but Arthur managed a wet kiss there that made Ariadne giggle and try to push him away.

"Well when I first saw you I thought—"

He lifted his head. Arthur knew his hair had decided to hang loosely down the sides of his face instead of staying gelled back, and that when it happened he looked more like a young artist than an Extractor, but he was curious as to Ariadne's first impression of him. "—Yes? Go on—"

"—that you were an exceedingly sharp dresser," she chuckled. "I actually believed _you_ were the boss of the operations."

"Fooled _you,"_ he snorted, and went back to kissing her abdomen. Under his lips, Ariadne wriggled, the lean muscles tensing under his lips. Her hands gripped his bare shoulders, and Arthur felt her fingers flex uncertainly.

He gave a low, pleased moan and rubbed his nose from one sharp little hipbone to the other before brushing his chin against the soft, almost lacy fur lower down. "Nice."

"You're not . . ." Ariadne began to protest faintly, trying to sit up. Arthur blew a warm breath experimentally across her curls and she shuddered.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that," he murmured. "I won't if you don't want me to, but I'd really like to. I mean, seriously—"

"Yes?" came her surprised question, and Arthur felt a pang of sorrow at how uncertain Ariadne sounded. Clearly she hadn't been treated—well, like the treat she was. He decided then and there that whatever else, she deserved to come first, always.

"Hell yes," he replied, and realized 'always' implied a lot more. But Arthur didn't want to think about that, not when the beautiful tangle of warm ringlets and sleek pink folds were demanding his full attention. He dipped his head lower and pressed a kiss along the seam of her sex, careful to keep it light, and felt Ariadne shudder, her thighs parting unconsciously to him.

"Unnnnnhhhhh," came her pleasured moan. "Arthur . . ."

"Shhhh," he murmured, dimples deep, and bent his head again, letting the ball of one thumb slide along the slick and beautiful cleft deep within the dark curls. The sweet sight of her rosy lips, already glazed and slick sent a lustful thrill through him, and Arthur dragged his tongue along the sensitive flesh, tasting her heat and flavor.

Lightly he slid his hands under her peachy ass, cupping it tenderly as he devoured her lovingly. It was fun, Arthur realized, to explore and tease and learn about Ariadne's delicious little quim. Some moves, like licks along the inside creases of her thighs made her squirm. Suckling the sweet petals of her lips made her shiver, and long, slow strokes against the hardening pearl of her clitoris had Ariadne gripping his hair tightly and pushing herself up against his teasing mouth, begging for more.

It was an anatomy lesson seared into his brain and along his tongue, and Arthur fought the quivering rise of his own demanding desire as he ground his unruly prick against the sheets, denying himself pleasure as he brought Ariadne to peak after peak of sweet climactic surrender.

Finally though, she tugged on his hair and gasped, "God, just _take_ me already!" and he knew it was time. With one ticklish wipe of his slick lips against her thigh, Arthur pushed himself up and slid along the damp, warm curves of Ariadne's frame, working himself between her welcoming thighs, and thrust.

Bliss. The hot squeeze of her cleft around his aching shaft made him grunt. He rocked into her slowly, but Ariadne lifted her knees and wrapped her legs around his hips. Arthur felt her ankles cross above his ass as she raked her nails along his back.

"NOW!" came her panting demand. "Please, Arthur!"

He gave in and thrust hard, the damp flesh of their bodies smacking as they rocked against each other in a joyous, dizzy union filled with gasping, growling and groans. Arthur let himself drive into Ariadne, driven by her insistent cries, and when his climax came, he lost himself in the glorious sizzle of each pulsing throb.

00oo00oo00oo00

It was only a few hours later that he woke to find Ariadne firmly latched to his side, her nose nearly buried in his silky armpit. The grey light of morning made the window shades brighter, and he relaxed again, smiling to himself. Sure his arm was asleep under the weight of the woman clinging to him, but somehow this was a minor situation; just having Ariadne there felt amazingly good.

Arthur drew in a breath, searching his thoughts, looking for any regrets or reconsiderations. It was pragmatic to assume there might be a few; he was after all, paid well to consider all the pros and cons of situations, and the practice bled over into his personal life more than he wanted to admit.

A few of the old arguments tried to rear up, but they were shadowy for the moment. _She's young_ was the most persistent one, followed by, _Are you really ready for a relationship?_ Arthur pushed them aside, aware of how utterly relaxed he was, how warm and comfortable the bed felt with Ariadne in it. He sighed and regretfully began to pull away from her to answer the demands of his bladder.

Ariadne protested sleepily, and finally opened her eyes, flashing Arthur a quick smile before drawing her brows together. "Oh God—what time is it?"

"Nearly seven," he told her, and she began to sit up, a flare of panic crossing her face.

"Classes!" came her slightly panicked tone. "Eight o'clock, oh God, my students, Introduction to Design . . . Arthur, I have to go!"

"I'll take you," he tried to reassure her, running a hand through his hair. "Shower and we'll get you on campus in forty minutes, guaranteed."

She shot him a skeptical look, but scrambled for the bathroom, while Arthur called down for coffee and croissants, then ambled in, catching Ariadne just as she was stepping into the shower.

"Economy of the morning," he announced and followed her into the glass booth.

"No sex." She announced to him in a distracted tone. Arthur nodded, turning the nozzle to the tiled wall as the water took its time in heating up.

He smirked at Ariadne as she ducked under the water and began scrubbing up in earnest. They showered, moving around each other easily in the small space, and Arthur was impressed with how Ariadne managed to get herself clean, dry and dressed before he was done knotting his tie. When he poked his head out of the bathroom, Ariadne was dipping a torn section of croissant into her cup of coffee, looking impatient.

"Ready to go?" he asked, rhetorically, since she was on her feet, gulping the damp bite of food down.

"Yes. Damn it, I'm so sorry; I totally forgot about the class," came her apologetic murmur. "Chalk it up to your seductive wiles, Point Man."

"I was planning on it," he assured her. "You _did _save me a cup of that, right?"

"Here—" she thrust the steaming coffee at him and checked her cell phone. "Okay, we have time . . ."

"Ungh," he agreed around the croissant in his teeth. Arthur slipped his suit jacket on and took a bite between packing up his keys, phone and briefcase. Ariadne already had another scarf—this one a nubbly aqua one—wrapped around her throat, and was pulling her coat on as well. They stepped out and rode the elevator down to the lobby, the old cage rattling slowly.

At the lobby, Ariadne turned to look at him, embarrassed, and Arthur realized she was almost squirming. "What?"

"My stuff . . . the key," she murmured, running delicate fingers through her damp hair. "What time is check out?"

"You've got the room for two days," Arthur replied quietly. "Remember I said I wasn't going to invade your space? I meant it, you know."

"I can't—" he heard her say, and then give a little gulp. "Arthur, it's really sweet, but-"

"You asked," he reminded her firmly. "I said yes. Go teach, Ariadne, and I'll pick you up when you're done. We'll figure out what to do then, okay? Not now—then."

His words made her relax a little and grin; they looked at each other for a long moment, and Ariadne gave a sigh. "Okay."


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur dropped her off just inside the staff parking lot with ten minutes to spare despite the slushy snow; in the car, Ariadne had turned and kissed him, clearly not worried about being seen doing so, which amused him very much. He drove off in good spirits, and when he reached the warehouse, the lack of packages and the footprints in the snow made him slightly wary.

With caution, Arthur opened the door and smelt Eames' aftershave well before he saw the man. Eames had his feet up on one of the worktables and was reading a travel brochure for a cruise line. He flashed an amused grin at him. "There you are; I tried calling, but it seems your phone's not on."

"Been busy," was all Arthur offered, feeling a twinge of amusement himself.

"Hmmmm," Eames replied, and his sharp stare made Arthur slightly apprehensive.

To cover himself, he asked in return, "What brings you into town?"

"A quick job here in the City of Lights, old man. A walk in the park, or la cuisine, in this case. Here—take a look."

Casually Eames dropped his feet to the floor again and handed over a file. Arthur took it and scanned the first page, aware of the other man's eyes on him as he did so. "Chefs?"

"Rivals," Eames corrected, smiling merrily. "Ever see that very old Bugs Bunny cartoon with the two chefs? It amuses me to no end to see that this pair have the same names—Louis and Francois."

"And they both want the recipe ala Antoine?" Arthur murmured, vague memories of Saturday mornings in front of a TV surfacing.

"A dead easy job, and minimum setup," Eames pointed out cheerfully. "One kitchen, a dining room full of hungry projections and the old mentor breathing down our subject's neck—we could do it in our sleep—and shall."

"What's the pay?" Arthur demanded, flipping to the back page and the bottom line. "This recipe must be one hell of a dish if the client's willing to pay for an Extraction."

"Three million," Eames supplied, getting to his feet and sauntering over. "And right before the holidays too. With a cut of that I could take a little cruise and treat myself to the good things in life. After all, what could be better from Father Christmas than a million dollars?"

He said it with such panache that Arthur grinned briefly.

"Yeah, that's a hell of a stocking stuffer. Is this all the prelim?"

"The basics," Eames nodded. "I've gotten some very interesting files on our client from the unsecured computer of his analyst, and access to his datebook so we can plan when best to make an appointment. So—is it a go?"

Arthur looked over the top of the file at the other man and gave him a slow, long look. "Kind of anxious, are we?"

"Well," Eames confessed in a low voice, "I'm actually interested in the recipe myself. Odd I know, but there you have it. The dish is legendary, and although a lot of diners and critics have tried to analyze it, it's never been written down, Arthur. It's like going after the holy grail of food."

Arthur blinked. "The holy grail—do you have any idea what you _sound _like?"

Eames laughed, his head going back and his teeth flashing. "Yes, in fact, I do. But the job isn't all about money _every_ time, Arthur, darling. Once in a while there are other considerations, you know."

"Let me do some checking, but barring anything hinky, it's a go," Arthur nodded.

Eames blinked and stared at him. "Good God; is that _agreement _coming from you, and on the first go-round?"

"Consider it _my_ Christmas present to you," Arthur countered, not meeting Eames' surprised gaze.

"You've gotten laid," Eames accused slowly. "And to think I'd live to see the day. This _is_ the season of miracles."

Arthur said nothing; denial would encourage Eames as would any attempt at deflection. Instead, he deliberately checked his watch, and noted to himself that Ariadne would be free in precisely three hours.

"Oh your very silence is damning," Eames needled sweetly. "No witty comebacks, no remarks about getting back to the job. You _are_ relaxed, aren't you?"

Before Arthur could think of any reply, the ring of the doorbell interrupted them, and he gave a shrug before moving to see who was there. The courier, a round little man stamping his boots against the cold, held out three packages and eagerly accepted Arthur's tip in return.

Two of the packages were from Yusuf, Arthur noted, and the third was from one of his bolt-holes in Hong Kong. He carried them in and Eames, ever curious, sauntered over to peek.

"Seds, preservatives for the same, and . . . Hong Kong?"

"Home away from home," Arthur murmured, not willing to say more. Travelling as much as he did, it made sense to have a few carefully chosen accommodations at set points across the globe. Hong Kong gave him easy access to Southeast Asia, and a place to disappear when necessary.

"Ahh," Eames nodded understandingly. "It's good to have a port in many harbors." He said this with such droll solemnity that Arthur shot him a suspicious look.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we all need a sense of security," Eames pointed out, a rare dash of seriousness in his expression. "Look, Arthur, I know we haven't always gotten along, and that losing Cobb was a bit of a blow to you. But I wouldn't be willing to stay on if I didn't think you had what it took to keep us all employed and out of prison."

Arthur stared for a moment before speaking up. "Where's the real Eames and what have you done with him?"

"God you're a suspicious git," the other man grinned.

"You really want that recipe," Arthur deduced, finally grinning back. Busted, Eames laughed, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yes, I damned well do," he admitted. "When can we get started?"

"Ariadne," Arthur murmured carefully, "should be free in a few hours. Let's go over the prelims, and get the background checking started on our chefs."

He felt an unreasonable rush of annoyance when Eames enfolded Ariadne in a hug. Utterly foolish, but Arthur felt his hackles rise in possessive protest, and was glad when Ariadne pulled away quickly and stood back, managing a smile.

"Hey! Didn't expect you—what brings _you_ into town?" she asked. Arthur was proud of the way she didn't even look his way as she bluffed along.

"Professional sabotage of a culinary nature," Eames responded, grinning. "I'm hoping we can create a nice little anxiety dream and strip out a renowned recipe along the way. Interested?"

"A recipe?" Ariadne echoed. Arthur loved the way she sounded asking a question that way, like a surprised puppy faced with a cat for the first time. He broke in, working to make his tone light.

"According to Eames, _the_ recipe. Nothing too serious—you up for it?"

They locked gazes for a moment, and Ariadne nodded; Arthur made it a point to look away first because he knew how sharp Eames was.

"Who's going in?" she asked, pragmatically. "Someone's got to keep an eye on the Dreamers and there are only the three of us."

"Well _I'm_ in, so I suppose that leaves you and Arthur to flip a coin," Eames replied, "unless you prefer 'rock, paper scissors.'"

For a second Arthur looked at Ariadne and almost laughed; she was trying to appear totally nonchalant and not quite succeeding. "Up to you," he told her. "I can wait tables, but I'm not going to wear one of those toques."

Ariadne blinked, and smirked. "Okay then-if I can trust you two not to kill each other. What do you need me to build?"

"A kitchen," Eames told her. "Something Miltonian with lots of open fireplaces and flames, darling. I want our subject ready to wee his pants before we're done!"


	14. Chapter 14

"Hell's kitchen," Ariadne chuckled a little. "All right, I have some references I can use, and some pantry layouts for a maze as needed. This must be a heck of a recipe, Julian."

"Oh it _is _love, it _is. _Be nice to me and I might even make it just for you," Eames flirted saucily. "A candlelit supper for two in a cozy corner-"

Arthur gritted his teeth, and kept his face averted. Part of him wanted to cut Eames down, quietly and efficiently, but doing so without revealing this new . . . situation with Ariadne would be damned difficult. Eames read people exceedingly well; it was his forte after all.

Ariadne shook her head. "I'm not big on fancy food," she murmured. "I'm more the 'nibble out of the basket of bread' type."

"I'm devastated," Eames snickered back, and shot a look at Arthur. "What about you, darling? Surely you'd be up for a taste of Boeuf Bourguignon Ala Marcel D'Etoile?"

"Can I put catsup on it?" Arthur dryly shot back.

Eames recoiled. "Heathens, the pair of you! Honestly, this city has some of the finest cuisine in the world and you'd settle for 'le Big Mac!'"

Ariadne laughed; Arthur managed a chuckle and Eames rolled his eyes but grinned as the mood lightened around them all.

"What's the time frame?" Arthur asked, and they pulled their chairs into a circle to confer.

oo00oo00oo

Afterwards, Arthur tried to come up with an excuse to walk out with Ariadne; he could see her struggling with the same situation. Eames lingered, settling in with his laptop and pulling up information about their target while the thin cold light of the winter afternoon shone through the skylights.

"Speaking of food," Arthur finally announced. "I could go for something. I didn't get much breakfast."

Ariadne bit her lip and out of the corner of his eye he watched her stifle a smile; clearly she remembered their coffee and croissants.

"Mmmm," Eames replied in a distracted tone. "Pascal's is close by, isn't it? Bring me back one of their Panini sandwiches—jambon et fromage, merci."

"Certainly, your highness," Arthur groused. "Avec mustard? Mayo?"

"No need to get shirty—you DID offer. Mayo, but only if it's the house stuff. Oh, and a side salad. Take little Miss Breadroll with you while I dig into Monsieur D'Etoile's school records. And a Perrier!"

"Get used to taking dinner orders," Ariadne advised, rewinding her scarf. She tucked the ends into her jacket and nodded to show she was ready; they headed out, into a cold and gusty breeze. Most of the snow had hardened, but the sidewalks were wet instead of frozen, so walking was relatively safe.

Once they were outside, Ariadne linked her arm through his in a decidedly possessive manner. Not that Arthur minded; she was warm.

"So . . . how long until he figures things out?" she murmured, her voice slightly resigned.

"Not long," Arthur admitted. "Right now he's on a tear for the job, but once he settles down, he'll be watching. He's already suspicious of me."

"Suspicious?"

"Claims I've gotten laid," Arthur drawled. "Does it show that much?"

Ariadne burst into giggles. "Don't ask _me!"_

"Why not," he pointed out. "You were there."

She punched his arm lightly, her cheeks pink from more than the cold as they reached the door of Pascal's. A large man was coming out; Arthur pulled Ariadne against himself to make room, and quickly they kissed. The sweet heat of her lips sent a surge of happy lust through him.

From the pleased look on Ariadne's face, the feeling seemed mutual; they kissed again, and when they stepped inside Pascal's an older man winked at them.

"Vive l'amour," he rasped from his table, toasting them with his glass of ruby port.

Ariadne merely smiled and ducked her head.

They ordered; rather, she did while Arthur stood behind her, hands shoved in his pockets, listening to Ariadne's rapid French. Her accent was tinted with British inflections and he wondered if those came from her mother or her nanny.

"And you'd like?" she turned unexpectedly, waiting for his preferences.

Arthur managed a small quirk of a smile. "Gruyere and roast beef I guess. And a cup of soup."

Nodding at this, Ariadne turned back and Arthur enjoyed the sight of her back, remembering what it had looked like and felt like under his palms. Memory nudged desire, and he found himself feeling slightly aroused.

They stood back, waiting for the order to be packed up, and the warm rich scents of the bistro drifted around them. He wasn't one for public displays of affection, the door kiss being the exception, but Ariadne leaned against him, comfortable as a happy cat rubbing against a greyhound.

"I'm nervous," she whispered. Arthur looked down at her, surprised.

"Second thoughts?" A quick sense of panic shot through his frame and Arthur forced himself to keep calm.

Ariadne looked up in her fearless way, and bit her lip for a second. "No. But that doesn't mean I'm settled and smug. We still have a lot to learn about each other."

"I'm a little ahead of you on that one," Arthur pointed out softly. "Although most of what *I* know concerns your credit report and traffic record. Not the stuff I _want_ to know."

"What do you _want_ to know?" she asked, intrigued despite herself.

"Your favorite holiday, and childhood pets, and whether or not we're going to deal with Eames on a united front."

The counterwoman called out and pushed the white bags fill with their order towards them; Arthur scooped them up and let Ariadne lead the way out of the bistro."Halloween, Quoth, and yes," Ariadne replied smoothly, leaving Arthur.

It wasn't until they were strolling back that she clarified, breath puffing in the chill. "Quoth was a raven; we found him when he was a chick and took him in as a pet during one of Mom's digs. He was a damned smart bird even if we couldn't get him to perch on a skull. I taught him to whistle 'Scotland the Brave."

The gentle whimsy of that amused Arthur and he could picture a young Ariadne with a huge black bird on one shoulder as she wandered amid ruins along some Greek coastline.

"Nice."

"Yep. He lived almost eight years, and died very peacefully one night. Mom and I put him in a small olive oil amphora and buried him at sea," Ariadne murmured softly. "The dig students thought we were nuts. What are we going to say to Eames?"

It took Arthur a second to realize she wasn't talking about Quoth anymore.

"Depends on a few things." He murmured thoughtfully, "and I'm not sure how he'll take it."

Her expression looked slightly troubled. "Mal?"

"It's bound to be a consideration," Arthur admitted. "I want to think she and Dom were unique, but Dreaming is tough, emotionally. We have less restraint on our impulses and feelings can run . . . hot."

The very word brought on a blush, and he noted that it was catching; Ariadne was pink too. "Yeah, I thought about that too—I don't know how things will be if we Dream together now."

"Yeah. Probably better that we don't go in together with our Galloping Gourmet forger this first time. I'm not good at . . . sharing."

Ariadne shot him a saucy look. "Me either. Je ne regrette rien, you know."

"Rêveur," he replied affectionately.


	15. Chapter 15

Hours later, Eames insisted on taking them out to dinner, and Arthur couldn't see any way out of it. Therefore they ended up in a tiny little restaurant in Montmarte, squeezed in a horseshoe-shaped booth of such antiquity that Ariadne was nearly lost between Arthur and Eames.

"We're here for the food, not the ambience," Eames insisted, waving over the nearest garçon and shifting into rapid-fire French, his tone expansive and confident. The waiter took the order without a pad, nodding respectfully and gliding off as Arthur savored the warm press of Ariadne against his side.

He wanted her, in too many ways to sort out, and that revelation kept him quieter than usual. Ariadne was busy plying Eames with questions and studying the restaurant but he didn't mind; the Englishman was clearly in his element, nattering away about wines and supplying background noise as Arthur considered matters.

The sex was good. The sex was _more_ than good, and had the potential to become incendiary if they spent any sort of quality time together, Arthur knew. Despite her waif appearance, Ariadne had a confident sensuality, even if her repertoire was narrow. The challenge of broadening her erotic horizons made Arthur fight back another surge of lust, and he tried to look calm as Eames asked him a question.

"Earth to Arthur; really darling, are we boring you _that _much?"

"Sorry. I was thinking about bed; I didn't get too much sleep last night," he replied with a straight face.

"That's terrible; you should have said something earlier," Ariadne chided him, her expression innocent, but mischievous heat in her eyes.

"What you need is sex," Eames informed him, accepting a glass of wine from the waiter. When Ariadne and Arthur looked at him, he shrugged. "Releases endorphins, aids in relaxation—seriously, pets, it _is_ nature's best sleeping pill you know."

"Somehow I _knew_ you'd say that," Arthur replied dryly. "I knew it."

"I DO try to live up to my reputation," Eames agreed. "Sex is generally my panacea for most ills."

"You must self-medicate a lot," Ariadne tartly replied, making him laugh. Even Arthur chuckled, pleased at her wit and a sip later, pleased with the wine.

"Okay, at least _this _is pretty good."

"Isn't it? One of those many secrets I've rooted out of this part of the city," Eames murmured. "Just wait until the food arrives."

Dinner turned out to be Brandade de Morue, delicious but slightly messy, and the sight of Ariadne with traces of it along the corner of her mouth made Arthur acutely aware of a desire to lick them away. It didn't help when she slid her hand along his thigh under the table, her stroke a tease to his libido.

"This is almost too much for me," Ariadne told Eames while her fingers lightly brushed Arthur's groin. He gulped his wine in an attempt to mask his response while Eames nodded.

"Heady stuff, I know, but delicious," the Englishman replied chattily. "I don't crave it often, but now and again I like to nosh my way down memory lane."

"I never would have thought you were a gourmet," Arthur managed. "Sure you're in the right line of work?"

"Oh absolutely," Eames assured him, "my cooking skills are strictly for self-pleasure and seduction; I'm selfish that way."

"Among others," Arthur replied dryly, making both his dinner companions laugh.

They all passed on dessert, and by the time they left the restaurant, Ariadne was slightly tipsy. Arthur wasn't sure how to communicate with her when Eames was so close, but as the three of them walked towards the stairs of Rue Foyatier, a taxi slowed and they piled into the back, still chattering. At least, Eames and Ariadne were; Arthur contented himself with giving the driver directions.

They dropped Eames off at the Four Seasons and the driver looped back to Hȏtel DuMont through the start of more snow; Ariadne snuggled up against Arthur's side, seemingly drifting off to sleep. He enjoyed the warm kitten weight of her against him, and even the driver singing along with the techno pop coming from the taxi radio didn't matter.

The elevator ride up to the fourth floor seemed to wake Ariadne up a bit more, and she shot a sleepy smile up at Arthur. "Sorry . . . too much wine tends to over-relax me."

"It's all right," Arthur told her gently. He had already decided to pour her into her bed in 405 and call it a night; not as much fun as more lovemaking, but he wasn't about to press his luck, and the sleep would do them both good. "Come on, Ari, time to get you to bed."

When he held out a hand for her keys, she scowled. "I thought I was staying with you for tonight."

"Well, you're right next door," Arthur pointed out reasonably. "I _did_ mention I wouldn't encroach."

"But it's _cold_!" Ariadne whimpered. "And _I'm _cold. I want to be with you tonight."

He hesitated. "We don't have to . . ."

"—brush our teeth?" she snorted, laughing at her own joke. "Come on, Arthur, I may be a little wobbly, but please don't send me to bed on my own."

Arthur slipped an arm around her, pulling her up against him, and Ariadne molded against him sweetly, her relieved expression making his chest light. "Sounds good to me," he confessed.

Watching Ariadne get ready for bed was fascinating, and he propped himself up against the headboard to see the show. After slipping into a thermal shirt and clean panties, she carefully applied lotion along her bare, smooth legs; it was something slightly citrus-scented, and her long slow strokes made Arthur keenly aware of how it was part of her scent to him.

Then she brushed her hair; not a hundred strokes, but enough to make her locks silky by the light of the bedside lamp. When she was done, Ariadne slipped under the covers and snuggled up against him, and Arthur wrapped a protective arm around her. "Nice girly rituals."

"Shut up," came her quiet snicker. "I have lived most of my life without grooming luxuries, so I'm allowed to indulge in them now if I want. Besides, it's winter and I don't want my skin to dry out."

Arthur made a little murmuring sound of concession; Ariadne's warmth and scent were good things. He reached over to pull the lamp's chain and the room went dark. "Maybe I should help you with those, next time. For efficiency's sake."

"You want to be my lotion boy?" came the muffled giggle from under the covers.

"Well if the position's open," Arthur replied with gravity. "I don't have any actual previous experience, not unless you count sunblock on myself-"

More giggles, and Ariadne's arm tightened around him. "I'll put your name in for an audition."

"Good to know."

They settled in, and before dropping off, Arthur allowed himself a moment of quiet joy.

00oo00oo00

Some point before dawn, Arthur woke up as a hand stroked his stomach. He felt Ariadne's fingers lightly glide over the lean muscles in a slow caress, each pass moving further down.

"Looking for something?" he whispered, smiling.

"Oh—you're awake."

"And up," Arthur couldn't help adding, since it was true. His erection bobbed lightly against his abdomen, thickening eagerly.

Ariadne purred, and her hand shifted over his navel and down, curling around his shaft in a gentle, welcoming grip. "You like me."

"Intelligent, beautiful, fearless—what's not to like?" He replied gently. "And sexy. That actually should have come first in a moment like this."

Ariadne slithered over his frame and looked down at him, eyes bright. "I like that you put 'intelligent' first."

"Does this mean I get the lotion boy job?" Arthur murmured, reaching up to pulled her into a kiss. His only answer was a warm flick of probing tongue and a full body wriggle that invited him to stop talking and do other interesting things.


	16. Chapter 16

Marcel D'Etoile was a busy man, and finding a way to isolate him for ten minutes was difficult until Arthur unearthed that he was in the habit of taking the service elevator up from the ground floor of his restaurant to his second floor office for an hour's nap in the afternoons. Then it was a matter of bribing a few disgruntled employees who were perfectly happy to provide access, and using Yusuf's aerosol sed to put the chef under for the vital minute it took to pull him into his office and hook up the machine.

Under—

Arthur glanced around at the busy kitchen, assaulted by the clanging of pots, the shouts of orders and a rich variety of smells ranging from sharp mustard to briny fish all mingling around him. He dropped his hands to pick up a tray of something and hoisted it to his shoulder, carrying it out through the swinging doors into the dark and elegant dining room dining room.

Here the ambience shifted, and Arthur got the impression of walls with flocked velvet paper, burgundy tablecloths and elegant diners seated helter-skelter. He paused only a moment, then carried the tray to the nearest customers, efficiently setting the dinners out for the subs before picking up the tray once more and turning back to the kitchen.

At the sous chef station, Eames beamed, clearly in his element, and Arthur stared. At the moment, the Englishman wore a long ponytail neatly draped down his back, diamond stud earrings in each ear, and a goatee framing his mouth. "Arthur! Has table seven been served?"

The affirmative was a quick lift of his eyebrows, and as he sauntered closer, Arthur sighed. "You're getting into this a _little _too much, Eames."

"And precisely how often are we capable of having fun during an Extraction, darling?" came the amenable reply. "This is a marvelous opportunity and I'm going to indulge myself precisely because I _can._ Hand me that knife, will you?"

Arthur picked it up, turning the handle towards Eames with practiced ease. "Where's our target?"

"D'Etoile is over at table seven, kissing up to the old crone in the black taffeta," Eames replied, busily slicing a turbot into beautiful fillets. "His mother, apparently, and no one to be trifled with, according to his therapist. In about three minutes I'm going to scream bloody murder and demand help here in the kitchen. That will very probably rile the subs, so I'll need you to fend them off while I get D'Etoile to spill his recipe. Think you can handle a roomful of angry customers?"

"Service with a smile," Arthur assured him, feeling slightly ridiculous. The one aspect of Dreaming that always ruffled him a bit was the sense of the absurd, and he wondered if that was why he chose to dress formally for most parts of the missions. There was no time for further self- analysis though; a pair of demi-chefs were arguing over a dish over at the soup station, and annoyed, Eames threw a paring knife their way.

"Arrêtez-le!" he bellowed, clearly in his element; the two chefs sulkily complied, and Arthur stepped over to pick up the next full tray, waiting for his cue.

For the next few minutes, he served food, refilled glasses, collected fallen silverware and generally circulated through the dining room. The work wasn't hard; Arthur had been in food service before, although never in a four-star restaurant. He slipped back into the kitchen as Eames sent the last dish out and turned to him, a smirk centered in the middle of his goatee. "Almost time. So exactly how long have you and Ariadne been making love, darling?"

It was precisely the sort of blindsiding comment he _should _have expected, and Arthur cursed himself for his complacency even as he felt the blush sweep over his face. "Eames-"

"Oh give it up, Arthur!" Eames snorted. "She was sporting a hell of a lovebite under her scarf, and don't think I wasn't aware of the scent of _your _shampoo in _her _hair. Frankly, it's rather adorable you've gotten together."

"Jesus," Arthur muttered. "Not that it's any of your damned business-"

"Generally no, but given how matters of an emotional nature can affect dreaming-" Eames pointed out sharply, and then gave a roaring bellow. "Merde! J'ai besoin de la recette !"

The disturbance rippled through the kitchen, and Arthur felt the hint of panic rolling out. He pushed his way through the doors and sleekly made his way to D'Etoile's table, gripping the man's elbow. "Monsieur, nous avons besoin de vous. La cuisine-" he managed in an urgent undertone.

Confused, but also slightly flattered, the round little chef rose up, murmuring something soothing to the old crone at the table. She hissed at Arthur, but he smoothly guided D'Etoile through the double doors, and kitchen into the hallway beyond. Eames was there already, throwing his hands in the air and beginning a rapid-fire monolog about the president of Chechopotamia arriving and needing a recipe for him.

Arthur let Eames tug the man away, down the winding hallways and pantries that Ariadne had cleverly whipped up, and began to barricade it with the accordion metal gate across it. Once it was locked, he settled in front of it as the sous chefs and other station workers uneasily began to return to their prep.

He checked his watch, counting in his head, and precisely fifteen seconds later, the elderly D'Etoile shoved her way through the double doors, screeching. "Ou est mon fils? Vous êtes un serveur très mauvais!"

Arthur tried not to take that personally. He carefully hefted one of the longer knives and judged the distance-

She charged him; he threw. The blade caught her in the throat and cut her off—literally—mid-squawk. Arthur wished Eames had seen it; he would have appreciated the marksmanship. He scooped up another handful of glittering blades and checked the sous-chefs; a few were making some tentative moves. Arthur waited patiently, ready for them.

As he held ground, he considered the conversation with Eames and found it to be . . . hopeful. Clearly the other man wasn't upset about the relationship, and that was more than Arthur had expected. He and Eames hadn't always gotten along, but most of that was a conflict of styles and personalities rather than any genuine animosity, and when push came to shove, Eames was thoroughly-if not flamboyantly-reliable.

Still, he was smart enough to pick up on the little signs, which meant he'd known even before making the dinner invitation. Arthur thought back as he dodged a flung chicken, and considered that perhaps the meal had been Eames' way of fact-checking the situation.

Now the chefs were flinging pots of soup, and Arthur managed to dodge most of it before spinning and elbowing the nearest in the stomach. Roundhouse kicks were out of the question, given the length of his apron, but Arthur managed to make good use of a few cast iron pot lids, and took out the kitchen staff with minor damage on his part.

The mess on the floor couldn't be helped, and when the first rumblings of disgruntled patrons began to build, he eyed the patisserie station thoughtfully.

"Damn it," Arthur muttered sourly to himself, suddenly aware that Eames had probably planned this from the start. He pursed his mouth, mentally registering the time, and began picking up the nearest dessert, feeling supremely annoyed at being tricked into a pie fight against his will.

They weren't . . . dignified, Goddamn it.

00oo00oo00

By the time Eames came back, D'Etoile in tow, the kitchen was liberally redecorated with frosting, pudding, cake crumbs and fruit filling. The few subs who hadn't succumbed to Arthur's deadly aim were staggering about, blinded by blancmange and considerably less interested in attacking. One portly patron looked like an Albino zombie, with the goopy remains of a trifle dripping down his face. Eames shot Arthur a glance of keen admiration before steering D'Etoile off to the side. The faint beginning bars of 'La Marseillaise' were signaling the coming kick, and Arthur could see by Eames' smirk that the recipe Extraction had gone well.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, le désordre !" D'Etoile moaned, looking about in panic.

"J'ai dû tuer votre mere," Arthur informed him politely. D'Etoile shot him a stunned look just as Eames quietly picked up a half-squashed meringue. Arthur growled, but a moment too late—the pie and the kick hit at precisely the same time-

"Shit!" Arthur snapped his eyes open, annoyed as hell. Ariadne recoiled his line, her attention on the sleeping chef. Eames opened his eyes, and laughed softly.

"Oh darling if you could have seen your _face_!" he rumbled, glancing at Arthur. "It's a damned pity we can't record these dreams!"

"Less than a minute—" Ariadne warned, and the three of them swung into action. Eames set D'Etoile at his desk while Arthur and Ariadne slipped out to the waiting elevator and took it down. They caught up with Eames outside the back door of the restaurant and climbed into the waiting Renault; Arthur drove as in the back seat Eames quietly dictated the recipe into a recorder.

On the passenger seat, Ariadne sat, arms folded, looking curious. "So?"

"So we got it," Arthur murmured. He felt sticky, and although he knew he wasn't, it was difficult not to rub his face.

"So what the hell was Eames laughing about?"

Arthur scowled; at any other time Ariadne's persistence would have pleased him at any other time, but for the moment-

"Because your darling Arthur was covered in the finest lemon mousse meringue," Eames drawled playfully. "Although he gave as good as he got, apparently!"

Arthur felt his cheeks burning; out of the corner of his eye he could see Ariadne starting to grin. "A food fight?"

"More like a food _slaughter_," Eames corrected cheekily. "Our point man has an amazing capacity for turning main dishes into main events, and if he feels like I do, he's craving a shower as well. Drop me off, loves and we'll catch up after we've all had a scrub."

"But you're clean!" Ariadne protested, still trying not to laugh.

"Psychological," Eames reminded her. "Besides, it will give _you_ a good excuse to scrub Arthur's bony bum. Again."

"Shit—Eames!" Arthur snapped, but Ariadne was leaning over her seat, staring at the Englishmen, her cheeks red, but her smile dangerous.

"I think you're jealous," she smirked.

To his credit, Eames laughed, eyes bright. "Oh it's quite possible darling, but the question is—of you, or of him?"

"Don't want to _know_," Arthur called out tersely. "We're dropping this conversation right now." It was a useless directive and he knew it; from his position he had a great sidelong view of Ariadne's shoulder shaking with laughter.

"All right, all right, no need to get your BVDs in knots," Eames sighed comically. "Just trying to show my support for your illicit affair you know."

"It's not illicit," Ariadne protested. "We're two single consenting adults here, and it's nobody's business but ours."

"Ah but it_ is _love, it is. See, when I'm putting my adorable self into dreams that y_ou_ construct and that Arthur manages, it becomes very MUCH my business to make sure I don't get say, flattened by a train," Eames sharply responded. "Now I'm all for romance, don't get me wrong. I just want some assurance that I can work around the two of you without risking life and limb."

Arthur cleared his throat. "If you're looking for guarantees, Eames, you're in the wrong damned line of work. Risk is intrinsic to everything in life, including relationships, and if it comes down to choosing between you and Ariadne, there's no contest."

The car was suddenly quiet, and Arthur felt the stillness burn through him as they drew closer to the hotel. Finally Eames gave a slow, deep sigh. "God, that was positively _romantic, _Arthur! I didn't know you had it _in_ you to be so passionate!"

Ariadne was watching him, a small, secret smile on her lips, and Arthur gave a small shrug. "Paradox."

Eames laughed, and when they all climbed out of the car, he lightly cuffed Arthur on the cheek. "You _are _a point man of many talents. All right then—I'll get the goods typed up—half the recipe upfront, and after the money is deposited, the other half released to our client. We'll have to hold off any celebrating though—yours truly is off on a well-deserved cruise, and I'm sure the pair of you can find plenty to do in the meantime."

They strode out of the parking garage and into the thin sunlight along the sidewalk of the hotel, breath frosty.

"You're going to be insufferable," Ariadne predicted; verbalizing precisely what Arthur had been thinking. It was a lovely bit of synchronicity, and he almost grinned as Eames cocked an eyebrow.

"And you're just figuring that out now, are you?" came the mild reply. "Listen to me, Ariadne: you're both damned good at what you do, and as long as that's the case, I'm more than happy to be party to whatever schemes come our way. But should this relationship of yours go south, I'd rather be in the middle of the Med, brushing up my baccarat and consuming vast amounts of vodka. Forger I am; relationship counselor I'm _not._ Got it?" It was said gently, but with a core of steel.

Arthur stopped, and turned to look the Englishman full on, his mouth curving into a gentle, slightly ruthless smile. "Eames," he murmured quietly, "go chase cruise bunnies and get a tan. We'll see you after the holidays."

Eames paused, glanced from Arthur to Ariadne, and smiled back, his expression lighter. He nodded once, bent forward to scoop Ariadne up in a high hug, then gave Arthur's gloved hand a quick pump before stepping past them and heading into the Four Seasons.

They watched him go, and Ariadne slipped her arm through the crook of Arthur's, her hand gliding into his pocket for warmth. He didn't look down, but a flicker of a dimple graced his cheek.

"So—we seem to have a free afternoon . . ." She observed, not looking up at Arthur. "And two hotel rooms to play in."

"Let's head back," he told her in his low, flat voice. "I have a trick to show you that you might like."

"Oh yeah?" Ariadne blinked, and he caught his breath at the sharp gleam of desire in her eyes. Beautiful eyes; full of intelligence and hope and trust.

Suddenly December in Paris seemed very nearly perfect.

"Yeah. It involves a scarf," Arthur murmured, finally letting his grin flash at her as she drew in a gasp of delighted surprise.

End

(Thanks for reading. I'd love to do a sequel, since I have several ideas for the future of Arthur and Ariadne's relationship and I hope readers might like those too. And for anyone interested in Eames' cruise, go read my story The Tutor-that's all about _his _adventures!)


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